Immaculate Deception (15 page)

Harlan Foy was a forlorn figure of despair as he sat among
the wreckage of Frankie McGuire's Congressional office. Packed cartons were
everywhere. Pictures, framed citations and plaques were piled high on dusty
desks, along with unused computers, coffee mugs and wastebaskets. The walls
were barren, except for the outlines where the pictures and plaques were hung.
It had, Fiona decided, the appropriate look of devastation and defeat.

Foy was sitting in what apparently was Frankie's desk chair
which had been rolled in front of the standard issue leather couch where Fiona
and Cates sat facing him. He was pale and haggard with deep black circles under
his eyes. Their visit had caught him unawares, a good thing in their line. He
was not, of course, overjoyed to see them.

"A bad dream," he sighed, waving his hand. Cates
and she exchanged glances. The wave was a decidedly effeminate limp wrist
gesture. "So much to do. The congresswoman was very active. There should
be a rule. Do not die in office. It's hell on the survivors."

"You still think she was murdered?" Fiona asked.
No sense being oblique on that point. Besides, she wanted to set the stage for
some tough questions.

"I don't know what to think anymore," he said,
folding chubby little hands on his lap and shaking his head, which was
disconcerting, since it made his puddled chins shiver like half-frozen gelatin.

"It certainly is not the work of any ordinary
hot-entry prowler," Fiona said. "If it was murder this one was
well-planned by somebody with a big reason." She watched his eyes as she
spoke. There was fright in them. She was sure of it.

"I can't see the forest for the trees anymore,"
Foy sighed. "All I know is I lost a friend, a colleague, an employer. And
the world lost a beautiful person."

"You were close?" Fiona asked. "More than
just an AA?"

"Very," he said. "Life won't ever be the
same for me."

"I thought maybe you were going to run for her
seat?" Cates asked gently.

"That took all of five minutes to decide," he
said. "A silly little fantasy. It's already been decided, you see. The
powers that be have anointed the great Jack Grady."

"And May Carter?" Fiona asked. "Where does
she stand?"

"In the end, she'll support old Jack. He's a
professional charmer, you know. May likes a boot licker, especially if it's of
the male variety. Frankie wouldn't take too much from May. And I got the full
brunt of the lady's wrath. No love lost between me and that big bitch."

He wasn't being the least guarded. He must have felt that
it was no longer necessary for him to hide his feelings.

"Whatever we did, it was never enough for May. She
kept us frantic, I can tell you. If she thinks Jack Grady will do better than
Frankie on fighting abortion, then she has another guess coming, I can tell
you. That lush will spend most of his time here sucking whiskey bottles."

He was obviously bitter, starting to spew venom. Perfect
for their purposes.

"For me, I guess it's all downhill from here,"
Foy continued. "Naturally, Jack wouldn't think of hiring me. I was
Frankie's person, you see. Proud of it, too. Their loss. I know where all the
bodies are buried around here. All of them. I did it all for Frankie."

"Private business as well?" Fiona interjected.

"Part of the job, you see. An AA is more like a Man
Friday. An everything. I did everything for Frankie. Took care of all her
personal things, too. I scheduled her whole life. Made sure she made her appointments,
took her meals, arranged for the cleaning woman. I even made sure her clothes
went to the dry cleaners." His gaze locked into Fiona's. "And I loved
every minute of it."

"Then you knew about Jack McGuire and his lady
friend?" Fiona asked. His upper lip trembled and he took his time
answering. "It's alright, Harlan," Fiona said soothingly. "She's
gone." He could not, even now, let go of his kneejerk protection of her
political image, portraying her as the loving wife of the loving husband.

"I knew. Of course, I knew. It just wasn't something
one flaunted. Not that it mattered to that turd."

"McGuire?"

"He is a miserable callous son of a bitch. Cruel. I
hated that man."

"Did Frankie?" Fiona asked.

"At first, when she heard about his little affair with
that..." He shivered with disgust. "...that little rat, that's what
we called her. Beatrice Dellarotta. McGuire and his little rat. Frankie was
devastated. Of course, he always fooled around. But this was just too much to
bear. And yet, she was a great soldier, Frankie was. She rose above it. Never
let it destroy her dignity. Even when the children blamed her, she stood up to
it. Her life, you see, was politics. She believed that God put her there to
work for what she believed in."

"Why wouldn't she give him a divorce?" Fiona
asked.

"The reality of politics. A man might get away with
it. But a divorced woman in Catholic Boston. Well, that's another matter.
Especially if she wanted to get to the Senate. Maybe she could have gotten away
with it. Who knows?"

"According to McGuire, she had consented, then changed
her mind."

He shook his head, vibrating his chins. His face had
flushed. He reminded Fiona of a circus clown.

"I see there are no little secrets anymore," he
said, waving his hand again.

"Oh, there still are a few," Cates said with a
touch of sarcasm. Foy cut him a quick glance of contempt and turned back to
Fiona.

"Why did she do that?" Fiona asked. "Change
her mind?"

She saw him hesitate, thinking it through.

"A dispute about the financial settlement," he
said quickly. "Not for her, of course. Frankie was not very interested in
money. It was about the children. Yes..." He seemed to be convincing
himself. But Fiona was already unconvinced. It was, she decided, the first real
hollow ring to his words. She exchanged glances with Cates, who nodded. He also
had caught the lie.

"McGuire says that such things were not the issue,
that the kids were well provided for."

"Well, you're not going to believe him, are you?"
Foy said, his cadences prissy. In fact, they seemed to get prissier as the
interrogation progressed.

"I'm not sure who to believe," Fiona said,
deliberately showing her own vacillation, urging him to convince her of his own
position. He was not reluctant to do so.

"If there was any other reason, I would have known. I
was her friend and confidante. I knew everything about her. Everything."

"Every little thing?" Cates asked pointedly,
again with a touch of sarcasm.

"Absolutely," Foy said with an air of finality.

It seemed time, Fiona thought. She fixed her eyes on Foy.
He was, indeed, a poor bastard.

"Did she have any lovers?"

He did not blanch, responding swiftly.

"That's absurd."

"Why absurd? She was attractive. Hardly over the hill.
Still desirable. Her husband admittedly hadn't had relations with her for
years. Woman have been known to need the blandishments of a man."

"I would have known," he said flatly, retreating
from any further engagement on that subject. "There was no way I could not
have known. We spent so much time together. No." He shook his head.
"It would have been impossible."

"Were you her lover?" Fiona asked.

Not only did his chins vibrate, he seemed to bend by the
sheer force of the questions. His body actually seemed to collapse, as if he
were a puppet whose operator had suddenly let go of its strings.

"I've asked you a question, Harlan. Were you her
lover?"

"My God," he gulped.

"You were, by your own admission, her friend and
confidante. You had the keys to her apartment. She was dependent on you."
Fiona raised her voice. "Were you also her lover?"

His nostrils twitched and, with effort, he sucked in short
gasping gulps of breath. Finally, gathering his wits, he found words.

"That is impertinent. Worse. It's rotten. Trying to
defame Frankie McGuire. It's sick. Sick. You people ought to be ashamed. This
was a fine woman, a good Catholic woman, a compassionate, decent human being.
How dare you defame her name?"

Suddenly his eyes moistened and tears ran down his cheeks.
He was overcome and collapsed with emotion, covering his face with his hands.
His shoulders shook. The reaction seemed genuine enough, although she could not
draw true pity out of herself. She had seen many a similiar breakdown, some
authentic, some pure acting.

"It's important, Harlan," she said gently.
"It could explain a great deal."

If he heard, he made no sign. She looked at Cates who also
seemed unmoved by Foy's emotional display. She detected a certain vagueness in
him, as if his attention was diverted elsewhere. It surprised her that he did
not jump into the interrogation.

"Are you saying it's not possible?" Fiona asked
Foy. She paused, waiting expectantly, letting Foy gather his wits. She was,
after all, approaching the climax of this interrogation, the moment of truth.

Foy reached into his pocket and pulled out a tissue, wiping
his nose and eyes. Finally, he took a deep breath and looked at them again. He
rose in the chair, squared his shoulders.

"Did you know she was pregnant?" Fiona asked
bluntly.

This time the blow seemed to strike him in the seat of his
pants. He shot up.

"You people are monstrous," he sputtered, waving
a fat finger in Fiona's face. "I will not talk to you anymore. I demand my
rights. As for that last remark, I demand proof positive. Proof positive."
Bubbles of perspiration rose on his upper lip.

"We have it," Fiona said. "It's a fact. And
all this anger and histrionics will not change it."

"I want you people out of here," he screamed,
stamping his foot. "Out of here."

"She was pregnant," Fiona said coolly when his
tantrum had run out of steam. "It is highly unlikely that it was in vitro.
Copulation, Harlan. Fornication, Harlan. Stop all this dramatic bullshit.
Somebody impregnated her." She stood, working up her own head of steam.
She came close and grabbed his lapels, her face up against his. "Do we
have to do this at headquarters? Who impregnated her? Was it you?"

He shook his head.

"No. It wasn't."

"You had no physical relations with her?"

"No."

"Are you gay?" Deliberately, she had shot him the
question before he had time to see it coming. Cruel work, she thought.

"No, I'm not. I can sue you for that. I have never ...
I am not gay. You should be ashamed. Ashamed to make such an accusation. You
people do that to all single men. Make an assumption of gayness. I am not gay.
Not on your life. I am a man, a man all the way." His overreaction told
the story. Still in the closet. Not bi. Totally gay. Deeply repressed. You
didn't have to be a psychiatrist to figure that one out, she thought. A
painstaking investigation might have picked up evidence. No, she decided. Time
to end it for the poor bastard.

"All right then, Harlan," Fiona said.
"Accept our apologies." He calmed down, then slumped into the chair,
looking like a large piece of pudding. "So you see. She was in a double
bind. She couldn't have an abortion and she couldn't really say it was her
husband's. Which could explain her suicide."

"I don't believe any of this," he muttered.

"I'm afraid it's true."

"Harlan," Cates asked. "Who the hell is the
father?"

"Oh God," he stammered, then looked at them squarely.
"You must believe this. I haven't the remotest idea."

They stood up. He seemed genuinely stunned. Fiona put out
her hand. Foy ignored it, turning his face away. She wondered if he had begun
to cry again.

"If you have any ideas we'd appreciate hearing from
you," Fiona said.

He did not reply.

They left the office and walked through the corridors of
the Rayburn Building. Cates was inordinately silent. At this point he would
have been chirping away, offering comments and conclusions.

"What's with you?" she asked as they walked into
the bright sunlight.

"I'm not sure," he replied, continuing his
silence all the way back to their office. Assessing the interrogation herself,
she was absolutely convinced that Foy was out of the picture. His shock had
been genuine. Nor had she calculated on the stunning impact her revelation
about Frankie's pregnancy would make on him. A clever lady, Frankie. She knew
the womanly art of keeping things to herself. Fiona could relate to that.

When they reached the office, Cates startled her by making
a beeline for his desk. He pulled out a sheaf of shiny papers, obviously FAX
copies, then studied them for a few moments.

"God damn," he shouted. The office was deserted
and the sound reverberated in the empty room. "It was bugging the hell out
of me."

"What was?"

"This," he said. He shoved one of the papers in
front of her nose and pointed to a name.

"B. Dellarotta," he said.

She looked at him.

"When?"

"The evening Frankie died," Cates said.
"Near as I can figure she spent two hours in Washington. More than enough
time to do the job."

"Well," Fiona said. "Do we have a believer
on our hands?"

"Not in miracles," Cates smiled. "Could blow
your theory. One thing is certain. She couldn't be the father."

The deal between the Boston and Washington Police
Departments was for Fiona to meet with Jack McGuire and Beatrice Dellarotta.
Beatrice Dellarotta was nowhere to be seen.

"This is not what we agreed on," Fiona said.

Bill Curran, Chief of the Boston PD, unsmiling and
arrogantly pompous, looked at her with disgust. He was a spare man with thin
skin as white as snow, a longish bony nose and little eyes that hid deeply
behind high cheekbones. His lips were also thin, with a purple bloodless tint.
He was one of those healthy men that look sick. Probably a jogger, she
speculated. There was no attempt on his part to be ingratiating. His carefully
cultivated deadpan expression made him one intimidating son of a bitch.

They were sitting in the living room of Jack McGuire's
apartment overlooking the Boston Common, a spacious place, filled with wooden
Colonial furniture that seemed, even to her unpracticed eye, to be authentic
antiques. Except for tacky pictures of Jesus and the Virgin Mother scattered
around the apartment, it might have passed muster as the residence of an old
moneyed Brahmin.

It irritated her to think in such bigoted terms, but these
Boston Irish invited the comparison. Her father would have clucked his tongue.
An old story, he had told her time and again. Shanty Irish imitating the Protestant
establishment without paying lace curtain Irish dues.

But her primary irritation was the way these old boy shanty
types stuck together. Jack McGuire, sitting smugly in the leather wing chair
opposite the forbidding and dour Chief Curran who sat stiffly, legs crossed, in
a high-backed wooden chair, a match of the one in which Fiona sat. It was
exceedingly uncomfortable. A metaphor floated into her thoughts. The room stank
of collusion.

It had taken two days of contorted machinations to get this
far. The Eggplant had greeted the revelation about Beatrice Dellarotta with a
resounding slap on his desk.

"Now that is police work," he said pointing his
panatela at Fiona.

"So what happens now?" Fiona had asked, reminding
him that they hadn't a stitch of evidence that Beatrice Dellarotta had ever set
foot in Frankie McGuire's apartment. No prints. No technical evidence of her
presence.

"Juicy stuff," the Eggplant said, still smiling
but obviously avoiding Fiona's question. "The pregnant other woman
confronts the pregnant congresswoman. The stuff of soap opera."

"A field day for the media," Cates said, a note
of caution in his tone.

The Eggplant looked at them and shook his head. His smile
faded.

"Looks like we got us here a P.R. problem," he
sighed.

She knew what he meant. He would have to talk to the mayor.
The mayor would talk to Rome. It could wind up as the kind of story, once
loose, that would slop over everyone, pro-lifers and pro-choicers, the cops,
the Congress. Everybody would be made to look like assholes.

Ridicule was the media's most dangerous weapon. It would
stick like molasses to everyone that came within spitting distance. Naturally,
such a fiasco would require a prize goat, someone in the middle rung to be
kicked and pummelled by those above and below. Someone like the Eggplant and
his minions. A quick verdict of suicide would now be everybody's ideal
solution, especially present company.

"So far, all we have is a red-hot lead," the
Eggplant said, proclaiming the obvious. "And we're still in the area of
the circumstantial."

Credit the bastard with stubbornness and pride, Fiona
thought with grudging admiration.

"But it does explain a great deal about Jack McGuire's
attitude," Fiona pointed out, deliberately refocusing the discussion. P.R.
was one thing, saving one's ass was another, but the heart of it was: What
really happened to Frankie McGuire? The fact was that none of them, she, Cates
or the Eggplant would ever be able to live comfortably under the cloud of
cover-up. And Beatrice Dellarotta did not come to Washington for her health.

"So what's your theory?" the Eggplant asked.

Fiona and Cates exchanged glances, Cates signaling his
approval of her proceeding.

"McGuire came home from a meeting the night of
Frankie's death," Fiona began, knowing that their joint theory was still
far from conclusive. "He found the little lady gone, got nervous.
Undoubtedly, she had threatened confrontation with Mrs. McGuire. When he
discovered that Beatrice was not at home at that hour, he assumed the worst,
meaning that she had gone to Washington loaded for bear. He immediately called
Frankie, maybe to put his two cents in or somehow defuse the situation. He got
no answer. Imagine what might have gone through his mind. Probably called again
and again. Since Frankie had switched the calls from the desk to her apartment,
indicating that she could be inside the apartment, he was doubly nervous.
Finally, in desperation, he called Foy and persuaded him that there was enough
at stake for him to go see what was going on in Frankie's apartment. He
went."

"Then Beatrice arrived home," Cates interjected.

"Probably raised quite a ruckus," Fiona
continued. "No shrinking violet that one. He was probably madder than
hell. Enter Foy. He has gone to the apartment. He calls McGuire. Tells him what
he has found."

"And the shit hits the fan," the Eggplant
interpolated.

"His first thought has to be..." Cates said.

"That his bitch murdered his wife," the Eggplant
said.

"Something like that," Fiona agreed with a frown
of distaste. No point in challenging the epithets, she decided. This wasn't the
time to change the world.

"Or harassed her to suicide," Cates said.

"Either way, McGuire chooses to stonewall."

"Can you blame him?" Cates said.

"Not at all. Wouldn't want to be in his place,"
Fiona said. "The woman he loves ... somehow causes the death of ... the
mother of his children." Of course, such a supposition was the heart of
the theory.

"Back to square one," the Eggplant snapped.
"Murder or suicide."

"I said 'somehow,'" Fiona qualified.

"Too many women. That's the lesson here," the
Eggplant said, half-facetiously. Once again she ignored the macho female
baiting.

"Not at all," Fiona said coolly. "The lesson
here is in the method. An emotional confrontation does not suggest a murder by
poisoning. A knife, maybe or a bullet. Certainly the congresswoman would not be
neatly tucked in bed with a glass of wine as she received her visitor."

"There's a big hole in the ice here," the
Eggplant said. "Too many damned glitches to pin a rap on our Boston lady. Why the absence of clues? No prints. No visible shootings. Too much
premeditation here. Too little emotion visible."

"Maybe that was the point."

"I don't get it," the Eggplant said, turning to
Cates who shrugged. The idea had not been discussed with him. It had just
popped into her mind.

"Maybe she and McGuire were in it together. Maybe it
was a set-up. The lady is expected. She comes up to Frankie's apartment. They
talk. All very civilized."

"And she pops the poison into Frankie's glass,"
the Eggplant said.

"It does have a bizarre logic," Fiona said.

"No way," Cates interjected. "If anything,
the woman's presence, the confrontation, could have been a trigger for the
suicide. The motive."

"Death by aggravation," the Eggplant sighed.

"That doesn't explain the absence of evidence
indicating that the woman was even in Frankie's apartment," Fiona argued.
It all came back to that. No clues. Nada.

"One thing we do know," the Eggplant said.

"What's that?" Fiona asked.

"We've got to feed this little rat some cheese."

She got the go-ahead the next morning. To keep the
politicians out of it, the deal was worked out at the lowest possible
authorized level. Thus, the Eggplant talked to his counterpart at Boston PD.
The mayor had instructed him to put a routine face on it. He told the Boston homicide captain that they just needed a bit of informational material to wrap up
the suicide. Had to talk with McGuire and Miss Dellarotta. There was absolutely
no way to avoid it. The idea, subtly conveyed by the Eggplant, was to clean it
up and put it away as quickly as possible. No tape recorders. No notes.

"Play it cool," the Eggplant had warned her.
"There's bound to be paranoia so it will be rough." They were alone
in his office. He had made it a point to call her in while Cates was not
available. The Eggplant seemed weary and more harassed than usual.

"I want you to know up front, FitzGerald, time is
running out on us."

"High noon?" Fiona snickered.

"The chorus is getting louder. Suicide. Suicide. They
think they can just dump the thing into this nice little coffin and bury it
forever." He studied his hands, avoiding her eyes.

"Are you asking me to be less than objective?"
Fiona said with a touch of mock belligerence. She knew better.

"I may rag you sometimes, FitzGerald, but I never once
asked you to cop out."

That part was true. His various strategies were sometimes
convoluted but he had never pressured her to compromise herself. Whatever her
private feelings about him, her distaste for his vanity, his sometimes
calculated brown-nosing and his overt willingness to avoid blame at all costs,
she knew him to have a hard core of integrity. Deep down. Sometimes very deep.
This time he was taking the ultimate risk. Without a killer, they might force
him to declare a suicide, which in turn would be challenged.

"I'll buy that," she said. Their eyes locked.
"Are you still stone-walling them on the pregnancy issue?" she asked.

"It's my only ace in the hole," he sighed,
sucking on his panatela. "We wrap this up, it's academic. We find a killer,
it would be out of our hands."

"You're hoping then that this Dellarotta is the
lady."

"With all my heart," he said.

He nodded, smiled and took a deep drag on his panatela.

"I'll do my best," she told him.

Homicide solutions needed as much certainty as possible.
Human life was at stake. A killer at large was dangerous enough, but a falsely
accused killer, especially one that was ultimately convicted, was a homicide
detective's nightmare.

"A confession would do nicely, thank you," the
Eggplant muttered as she left his office.

"You know she has to be talked with," Fiona said,
her eyes darting between Curran and McGuire. She took the folded plane roster
from her pocketbook, unfolded it and handed it to Curran. "It's
irrefutable. She was in Washington around the time of the congresswoman's
death."

"That doesn't mean that she was anywhere near
Frankie's apartment," McGuire said.

They had checked, of course. They knew there were no prints
or any other evidence linking Beatrice to Frankie's place.

"Then what was she doing in Washington?" Fiona
asked.

"I'll admit this much," McGuire said. "She
did go to Washington with the intention of seeing Frankie, begging her to grant
me a divorce, make our child legitimate."

"Without your knowledge?" Fiona asked. Curran started
to say something, but McGuire waved him silent.

"Do you seriously believe that I would have consented
to let her go if I knew?"

"If it did the job..." Fiona began.

"Now that is uncalled for, sergeant," Curran
snapped.

"And I'm doing my job," Fiona shot back.

"You have no evidence to suggest that Mr. McGuire had
any knowledge of Miss Dellarotta's trip," Curran said with a glance toward
McGuire.

"I don't need any evidence to ask the question,
chief," she sucked in a deep breath. "And you know it."

Again McGuire waved Curran silent. He turned toward Fiona
and smiled unctuously. His objective, she knew, was to be persuasive, to send
her away without any suspicious feelings about his girlfriend.

"You could understand why she would want to do this,
FitzGerald," McGuire said. "You being a woman."

"And being a woman, I'd be more comfortable if she
told me why herself."

"She's too damned upset by all this and is scared to
death that you wouldn't believe her. What happened was, she got off the plane,
and couldn't bring herself to humiliate herself. She's a proud woman, you see.
But Frankie really was being a shit about it. Really. It wasn't a question of
money. All Beatrice wanted was respectability. Was that so much to ask?
Frankie's change of heart was a great blow to Beatrice. I guess she had it in
her mind to make a last ditch effort."

"And you say she got cold feet?"

"He didn't say that, FitzGerald," Curran
interjected. "He said that the lady simply changed her mind. Ladies do
that. The congresswoman did it as well."

"And men don't?" She felt a sharp tug of anger.
Irish macho was, to her, the most insidious of all. Too close to the bone.

"No offense meant to your sex, sergeant," Curran
said, quickly backtracking. He was, she could see, one for testing the waters.

"It still would be better hearing it from her,"
Fiona pressed. She was determined not to give up on that point.

"Give her a break. Is it Fiona?" McGuire asked.
He was trying his best to be ingratiating and she was beginning to buy his
sincerity.

"It's Fiona," she said flatly.

"Good Irish name that," McGuire said. Don't
overkill it, she thought. He looked at Curran. "Has a good ring, right,
chief?" Curran grunted, his face without expression.

"I think the Scots favor it more," Fiona said,
unable to resist. McGuire did his best to ignore the remark.

"Like I said. She went to Washington, decided she
couldn't face Frankie, walked around, then took the plane back two hours
later."

"Did she tell you why?"

"He already said," Curran interjected.

"You didn't know Frankie," McGuire volunteered.
"She was tough. She would have chewed her up, turning it around on her.
She had wanted to face her ever since Frankie changed her mind. I told her no.
Absolutely no. She did this on her own. As it was, it turned out that Frankie
wouldn't see her. Damned bitch. But you couldn't blame Bea for trying."