Immaculate Deception (22 page)

"It's not what you think, Fi."

She was confused. He came toward her and held her by the
shoulders.

"I did it out of self-protection. My wife wanted to
live as a true Catholic, have a giant family. As many kids as God provided, she
would say. Then she became this fanatic. I no longer knew her. I hated the idea
of a huge unplanned family. Worse, I began to hate her and her ideas." He
paused and looked into her eyes, pleading. "I tried to keep us together as
a family. It was the only weapon I could muster. I needed to fight back. I had
a vasectomy."

A sinking feeling engulfed her and she felt on the verge of
fainting. She turned away, hiding her face. Her sense of defeat and humiliation
was acute.

"In some cases it is reversible," he said.
"But there are no guarantees and the percentage is minuscule."

She could find neither the will nor the courage to answer
him. Her sense of self-delusion was intense. She had brought this down on
herself. She had victimized herself with false optimism, wild assumptions and
mad fantasies. She assailed herself for her naïveté, her vulnerability.

"Oh Mother, Mother," her inner voice whined.
"I am such a fool."

"You can't always get your own way," she heard
her mother respond, her voice larded with that unmistakable tone of
self-righteous surety.

"I never told you. I never even thought it might be a
factor between us," Greg said. He could not hide his disappointment.
"All I can promise, Fi, is my love. Surely that's a valuable thing."

She felt herself approaching the outer cusp of hysteria and
was fearful that she might erupt, lose control. Then she heard herself
laughing, a hollow false note.

"I'm sorry, Greg. No. You're right. It shouldn't have
been a factor. I'm not so sure I'd make a good mother anyway." She paused,
letting the words linger in the air. "I don't think I'm good marriage
material either."

"Only one way to find out," he persisted. He was
amazingly, infuriatingly tenacious. But hadn't he been devious as well?

She shook her head, walked toward him, and came within
range of a potential embrace. He held off, watching her face. She most
certainly must have been a puzzle to him.

"I say..." she began, hoping her voice reflected
an airiness that she did not feel inside. "I say we leave well enough
alone, Greg."

"But really, Fi..." he began.

Moving closer to him, she put a finger on his lips.

"You know what too much familiarity breeds."

"I'm not going to give up, Fi," Greg said.

But she had already written it off. His cause was hopeless
now.

She watched him stand for a moment in the entrance of the
Marriott Restaurant. For a brief moment as he stood there, she saw him without
his political mask of surety and reserve. Then he caught her eye and the mask
quickly reappeared and he walked toward her with a broader smile than he
usually wore, compensating surely for his inner anxieties.

She had deliberately chosen the Key Bridge Marriott on the Virginia side of the Potomac, counting on the symbolic separation to suggest
confidentiality and secrecy. The view, one of the best in town, was also
symbolic. Through large picture windows one could see the whole panorama of
official Washington with its monuments and wedding cake buildings, the seat of
power in all its physical glory.

Her call to Rome had been a compulsive idea. Last night's
episode with Greg had shaken her equilibrium. Her fantasy had exploded leaving
her angry and humiliated with most of her enmity directed against herself. All
that angst and rationalization. All that convoluted logic. It hadn't mattered.
None of it.

To get her mind off her appalling miscalculation, her
childish foray into mindless wish fulfillment, she had forced her thoughts to
near total concentration on the McGuire case. Perhaps her call to Rome was motivated by some subconscious effort to balance the scales, to pursue a moral
imperative. Enough, she berated herself. Enough of this psycho-babble.

She had, indeed, talked from both sides of her mouth and
her disappointment was not only in her lack of conception but in her own lack
of insight and scruples. Served her right. In the end she found a tiny shaft of
humor in the predicament. She had misappropriated some dead semen. How was she
to know the son of a bitch was shooting blanks?

Poor Charlie Rome, she snickered without pity. She had
appointed him surrogate whipping boy.

The fact of meeting him was an act of defiance. She hadn't
asked permission. She had "apprahzed" no one. This was her own call.
She knew she was flirting with danger. If nothing came of it the Eggplant would
be apoplectic. Cates would be appalled. The mayor would be vindictive. If it
backfired she would be out or, at the least, relegated to the Siberia of
traffic control. There was absolutely no upside for her in this, even if she
cracked the case wide open. They'd put it down to just another pushy broad
going off half-cocked during her monthlies. Never mind that she was doing the
right thing.

Rome offered his hand as he sat
down, a pol's natural reflex and she took it, felt the flesh's pressure and
heat. At this proximity in the bright morning sunlight, he showed his age. His
skin, which looked pink and healthy from a distance, revealed a sprinkling of
brown sun damage spots. There were nests of wrinkles beside the eyes and the
rings of his contacts were clearly outlined over moist brown eyes.

But his grooming was impeccable. His navy suit with white
pinstripes was obviously custom made. Presidential cufflinks peeked out of
crisply folded shirt cuffs. The fellow knew how to put himself together. She'd
give him that, although somehow it suggested his wife Barbara's passion for a
style based on crisp orderliness.

"I couldn't resist an air of mystery," he said.
The waitress came with coffee. As he thanked her with his pol's smile, he
looked surreptitiously around the room with what she thought were furtive eyes.
No one here to misinterpret things, he seemed to conclude, with obvious relief.

"I'm really sorry about the sense of urgency, but I
did feel it was necessary that we meet."

He looked at his watch.

"I was due at a prayer breakfast," he said with a
chuckle. "I hope the Lord will forgive me." He took a sip of his
coffee and looked cursorily over the menu, then moved it aside with an air of
indifference.

She sipped her coffee. It tasted bitter and turned sour in
her stomach. Swallowing hard she began.

"This is strictly between us, congressman."

"I thought as much from our conversation."

"No one knows. This is my own idea."

"You have my complete confidence."

Her voice was shaky and it surprised her. The weakness
seemed to relieve him somewhat, which she took as a good sign. She wanted him
to be relaxed, less on his guard.

"I believe I know who Frankie McGuire's lover
was."

She looked for signs, involuntary cracks behind the wall of
outward serenity. None were visible.

"You make it sound earth-shattering."

"In a way it is."

"I want you to know up front, that I doubt she had
one. Certainly not Foy. If I were a betting man, I'd say that she and Jack got
together. Despite their differences, they were still husband and wife."

The waitress came back and took their order. Rome ordered scrambled eggs and she whole wheat toast. There was no way she could eat it
and she suspected that what she was about to say would take away any appetite
that Rome had mustered.

"We have evidence..." She cut herself short, a
tactic to deepen the sense of ominous mystery, and studied his face intently.
No sign of fear or anxiety. No reaction either way. It began to worry her. If
she was wrong, she could kiss her career goodbye. Rome would never forgive her,
go for the jugular.

"Evidence of what?" he asked blandly.

"We know how she and her lover managed their trysts
without apparent detection." The word "apparent" was the tease,
implying witnesses. It crossed her mind that perhaps the man was wired, making
a case for police entrapment. Nevertheless, she pressed ahead.

"Why tell me this?" he asked, smiling pleasantly.
Not a nerve seemed awry. There wasn't the slightest sign of tremor or
palpitation.

"Because," she said drawing it out. "I think
I can trust you to know."

"That's a tall order," he said, his smile
collapsing. "Maybe you shouldn't tell me either."

He wasn't fooling her one bit, she decided. He knew the
parameters. She had told him on the phone that she had something
"new" to impart on the McGuire case. For his ears only. She had made
that perfectly clear. The very fact that he had accepted her invitation proved
his special concern.

"On the contrary," she said. "Because of
your extreme interest in the case, I think you should be the first to
know."

She was deliberately crawling up to the revelation, dancing
around it. To spark his curiosity, a buildup was essential. Her object was to
get him all shook up to the point where he couldn't keep the mask intact.

"Not Foy, I hope." It was intended as a stab of
levity but it fell flat.

"Not Foy," she said.

"Am I supposed to ask?" he said with just the
slightest flareup of annoyance.

She shrugged, then looked directly and deeply into his
eyes. For the very first time she saw the fear. Now, she decided.

"You were Frankie's lover, Mr. Rome."

She said it softly, watching its impact. She saw his
expression change, the wavering of surety, the first faint signs of a terrible
vulnerability. He stood up and flung his napkin on the table. But he made no
move to leave.

"I don't think you would want to create a scene, Mr.
Rome," she said coolly. She was into it now, strong and confident,
studying him for clear signs of her theory's validation. She hadn't expected
him to crumble without a fight. After glaring at her for a long moment, he sat
down.

"There are heavy consequences in false
accusations," he said, lowering his voice.

"I know."

She watched as he forced himself under control. This was a
man of enormous discipline. Through willpower and imagination he had literally
shaped himself into an image of what apparently passed for a
"statesman." He projected dignity and bearing, especially with his
greying hair and superb grooming. Combined, these attributes gave his words the
tone of wisdom. It was fair to say that he was long on style. As for substance,
she knew little about his performance, but a good guess would be that he was
more of a power broker and a "force" rather than an imaginative
conceptualizer of new legislation.

If his head were transparent, she was certain, she would
see the patterns of a computer program set to trigger a kind of charming
indignation. It was really his only option. The fact that he had not stormed out
of the restaurant was a hopeful clue that she had not guessed wrong.

"You realize, of course, that that is the most absurd
notion I have ever heard in my life. I am a happily married man, a constant and
devoted husband. I suppose I should be flattered to be accused of infidelity
with such a lovely woman as Frankie. The idea is fascinating, even attractive,
but I'm afraid a clandestine affair is not my cup of tea."

He was ladling out the charm from a bottomless inner
bucket, slopping it over her with what he must have thought was elegance and
finesse.

"Just hear out my fantasy, Mr. Congressman," she
said. She hoped he noted the sarcasm and contempt in her tone. She didn't care.
She was encouraged now, her gut instinct vibrating like a tuning fork with sympathetic
certainty.

"I'll listen, of course. But I would appreciate it if
this bit of fiction stopped at the door of this restaurant."

Despite his calm exterior, she continued to sense his fear.

"We found a latent fingerprint," she said,
sucking in a deep breath, wondering if her nose was growing. "Yours."

"Wouldn't be surprised," he said calmly. "We
visited Frankie often."

"On the toilet seat, at that point where a man's hand
is used to lift the seat."

"And yes, I most probably did use the facility,"
he said with contrived bemusement.

She was strictly improvising now, jockeying for position,
waiting for the moment of vulnerability. Since he was a man of vast talking
experience and a heavy reliance on wit, it would be natural for him to best her
in any rebuttal and deflect accusations.

"You reached her discreetly through the exit stairway.
A cautious man could effect such an operation without being seen. Unfortunately
that was not a foolproof operation."

"Of course you have a witness for these fictional
assertions," he muttered.

"Yes, we do. Two in fact. Both quite credible. They
saw you in the corridor on Frankie's floor. They're dead certain. I showed them
pictures. They didn't know your name, only that they saw you often coming out
of the exit door and proceeding to Frankie's apartment."

"That's sheer madness," he protested. Still, he
made no move to leave. She noted, too, that despite his control, he could not
quite dominate his fingers, which shook, and his skin, which had grown pinker.

"What is, your being Frankie's lover?"

"And this is your own brilliant theory?"

"I do not believe it's theoretical," she snapped.

"Your superiors know nothing of this?"

"Nor my partner."

"And the technical people? The fingerprint."

"That doesn't mean an accusation. Prints are often
identified without comment. And you were a visitor to Mrs. McGuire's
apartment."

"With my wife."

He shook his head and forced a smile.

"On occasion."

"Sounds to me like something in someone's dirty tricks
department. Who are you really working for, FitzGerald?"

"Now it's a conspiracy," Fiona said. "Mr.
Rome, you have a very safe seat."

"No one is immune to reckless slander, especially in
politics." He thought for a moment. "I get it. You're part of the
pro-lifers. They've been trying to get me for years. So old May Carter has
finally found a weapon." His face reddened further revealing his
accelerating anger. "The old bitch finally found a way to get me. How
utterly disgusting." He had, she could tell, truly believed he had found a
way to get off the hook.

Her certainly knew how to wiggle. She started to say
something in protest, but he interrupted before she could get the words out.
"It's all quite clear to me now. You won't get away with this. You know
why?" He pointed a finger at her. "There's a basic flaw in your
theory. Nothing you have said can prove that Frankie was murdered by me and
that is, apparently, what you're suggesting. Even if I were her lover, which I
deny categorically, you still have to prove that I murdered her, which is
impossible and untrue."

He stopped, sucked in a deep breath and seemed quite
satisfied with his explanation.

"There is a baby involved here," Fiona said,
feeling her own emotional system ride into high gear.

"Fetus," he corrected.

"A life."

"And it was Frankie's choice to decide what was right
for her. She chose to eliminate both herself and the baby."

"Your baby," Fiona said quietly. It seemed
suddenly, to her, the profoundest issue in the case and for the first time she
discovered the true nature of her own personal policy on that issue.

If it happened to someone else it was a moral issue only,
abstract and high-minded, on whichever side one came down. If it happened to
you it was a matter of life and death. Last night, tossing and turning in bed,
she must have subconsciously debated the point with herself. She had, in
effect, lost her baby. Albeit it had been in her imagination but it had been
just as real to her as any biological conception. And she had experienced the
same psychic hollowness, the same sense of despair and loss, as if something
had been stolen from her body by forces outside of her control.

"I don't know why I'm listening to this," Rome said, but something in his tone lacked conviction. For the first time she noted that
a moustache of perspiration had grown on his upper lip. Also, his clear intense
eyes had grown suddenly vague as if he were looking inward.

"Because you know I've got it right."

"This is preposterous. I have a good mind to call the
mayor," he said.

"I'm sure they can bring you one of those cordless
phones." She began to look around for the waiter. Seeing one, she raised
her arm and he reached out and brought it down.