Immaculate Deception (25 page)

"Only us again," Fiona said pleasantly, hearing
Barbara Rome's voice from the other side of her apartment door. They were
obviously being inspected through the door's peephole.

"Just some routine loose ends to wind up," Fiona
lied. "We'll only take a moment of your time."

A burning debilitating anger had kept her awake throughout
the night. She had roamed the well-kept garden in the clear moonlit April
night, huddled in her mother's old mink, which had hung unused in the hall
closet for five years.

Her mind seethed with self doubt. Few things ever were the
way they seemed at first. Emotion had a way of brutalizing. Lies and betrayals
were everywhere, hidden in the nooks and crannies, the camouflaged orifices of
the human soul.

"I know," she spoke aloud, as if responding to
her mother's imaginary rebuke. Think only good of people, her mother had
preached. Nonsense, her father had countered. Too many sly bastards plotting
infamy and evil, waiting for their chance to own a pound of someone else's
flesh.

Ironically, her mother's demeanor was dour, her father's
devil-may-care, Irish, lighthearted. His crying was on the inside. Stop this,
Fiona, she bayed to the full moon. Stop this silliness, this stupid exercise in
trying to sort out her genes, looking for clues to her lack of insight. What
was she in this business for in the first place? Her mother had berated her for
that decision as well. You, Fiona, are a traitor to your class, turning your
back on privileges honestly earned by your forebears, groveling in the filth of
human degradation.

"To see justice triumphant," she shouted into the
spring-scented night. Her mind's echo sobered her into silence and she thought
of Frankie McGuire, cold in her grave along with her dead fetus.

"Can we sleep nights on this one?" the Eggplant
had asked. Well here, by God, was the answer to that question. Me floating like
an apparition through the night, searching for advice from the ghosts of my
progenitors. She laughed aloud, like some cackling witch.

By the time she had crawled back into bed, she had roused a
bellyful of anger. No one, by God, no one, fucks over Fiona FitzGerald. Echoes
of her father surfaced. It had been his own muttered theme. You'd have to get
up damned early in the morning to do that. And since she hadn't gone to sleep,
she had them beat on that score.

And after all the angst and internal pub-crawling, Fiona
knew what had to be done. It carried a deadline as well. The Eggplant had asked
for the paperwork, "First thing in the morning. I have an appointment with
hizzoner and I want to lay it on his desk."

At the crack of dawn, she called Cates.

"Okay, so we slept on it," she said. "You
game, Cates?"

"We don't shake her tree, we'll never sleep
again."

She knew, of course, that that had to be his response. The
irony was that they had ended their speculations the day before with
"let's sleep on it."

All yesterday afternoon and evening they had considered
possible scenarios, all of which reached legal, political or public relations
dead-ends.

"So we place her in Nevada," Fiona had
speculated.

"At the mining site."

"An office, a physical place. There would be a manager
and materials, including the cyanide."

"Inventories, too. This is a substance that begs for
control." Cates had grown thoughtful. "Or maybe not. Maybe it was
just lying around available."

"So she gets it, brings it back with her."

"We don't know that."

"We're assuming."

"We'll have to do better than that. Half a loaf won't
fly. It boils down to the old chestnut. Too circumstantial. This one needs
proof positive."

"But we do have her accessible to the poison,"
Fiona had pressed. "She would be clever. Keep far away from local sources.
Too risky. This way she could get her hands on it without ringing warning
bells."

"It makes all the sense in the world," Cates had
pointed out. "She finds out that hubby and Frankie are a duo. She gets
this idea to eliminate the competition. She concocts this plan. She goes to
Nevada on her regular run. Brings back the poison, then goes downstairs for a
heart-to-heart with the lady, drops the cyanide in her glass. Two and two makes
four."

"Five," Fiona had countered. "Lots of logic
but not a shred of evidence."

"It's there somewhere, Fi."

"In the hot and guilty mind and black cold heart of
Barbara Rome."

By then the scenarios had gotten repetitive and Cates had
suggested they sleep on it. Not long, though. He was going to drop the
paperwork on hizzoner's desk in the morning. Except that he wasn't going to
have it.

Barbara Rome opened the door to them. She was wearing a
blue satin dressing gown. Not a hair was out of place, despite the hour, which
was barely 8 A.M. Her make-up, too, was immaculately applied. She was a perfect
accompaniment to her apartment, which was as shiny as a new penny. Fiona
wondered if the bed she shared with Charles Rome had already been made. Tight
hospital corners for the sheets, she speculated. There was no sign of a maid.

Fiona's study of both the lady and her surroundings was
intense and she was certain that Cates was equally as diligent. Her mind was a
receptor now, a blend of scrutiny and memory. And something was already nagging
at her, lurking in some dark corner of her mind, waiting to emerge. For some
reason, too, her mind had also dredged up inchoate thoughts of Greg, something
about him or something he had said. It was an odd intrusion and she tried to
dismiss it.

"I have coffee," Mrs. Rome said, leading them to
the living room. As before, it was scrupulously clean. A white-gloved
inspection would not have garnered even a microscopic speck of dust.

"That would be fine," Fiona said. It was
important for their purposes that the woman not feel threatened. Cates also
nodded his acceptance of her offer.

They waited in the living room, silently inspecting. The
damask drapes were pulled back, letting in the morning light. Even the windows,
Fiona noted, were immaculately polished. Books on their shelves were arranged
neatly, like shiny soldiers in formation. On the floor was a fringed oriental
rug. With her foot, she flipped a corner aside. Beneath was a parquet floor
polished to a mirror shine. Even what was hidden was carefully tended.

Barbara Rome came into the living room holding a bright
silver tray, milk white cups and saucers and a matching coffee pot, which she
placed on the cocktail table. Then she poured out the coffee with what seemed
like elaborate ceremony.

From where she sat on the couch, Fiona could see the
western landscape that she had seen earlier, but now it had far more
significance. Orange-tinted in the late afternoon sun, the painting depicted a
dry desert beauty and startling rock formations. In the cloudless grey sky a
predatory bird circled, seeking prey.

"Nevada?" Fiona asked casually.

"Yes," Barbara Rome said. "Isn't it
lovely?"

"You're from there, aren't you?"

No sign of caution. She was more relaxed than on their
first visit.

"Just a western cowgirl," she said lightly.
"Cream or sugar?"

"Black is fine," Cates said.

"Fine for me, too," Fiona said. "You go back
often?"

"Every few months," Mrs. Rome said. "Family
business interests have to be looked after. I was an only child of a driven
man."

"Mines?" Fiona asked.

"That and real estate. Also cattle. My late father was
a brilliant entrepreneur."

"Gold mines?" Cates asked.

"Not quite like it sounds. It's an old claim we're
still working. Believe it or not, I have a degree as a mining engineer. Father
was one as well." She turned in her seat and motioned with her head to a
portrait of a forbidding man with a moustache that drooped at the ends.
"Quite a man."

"Mr. Rome off to the Hill?"

"Man gets up with the roosters," she said,
smiling. "Now what can I do for you? Charles tells me that this Frankie
thing might be settled once and for all." She clucked her tongue.
"But I'll never understand it. A woman like that taking her own
life."

"She didn't," Fiona said quietly, her eyes
probing those of Barbara Rome. Her only reaction was a slightly speeded-up
blinking action. She lifted her cup and saucer.

"But I thought..."

"So did we," Fiona said cutting a glance at
Cates.

"Are you saying..." Mrs. Rome began, then trailed
off.

"Frankie McGuire was murdered. It is beyond a shadow
of a doubt."

Barbara Rome still held the cup and saucer, but a
clattering had begun as her fingers began to shake. Suddenly, both the cup and
saucer fell on the cocktail table. The cup broke and the oriental rug got the
full brunt of the coffee.

"Oh, my God," Mrs. Rome squealed. She ran into
the kitchen and was out seconds later with a roll of absorbent paper, a sponge
and some cleansing compound. Down on her knees, she began to blot up the stain.

Only then, seeing her on her knees zealously sopping up the
coffee stain, did the thought seep out of her subconscious. Greg had advertised
his neatness as a great plus for their relationship. Nothing ever out of place.
Everything shipshape and clean. This woman was obviously a fanatic about that,
obsessively compulsive. Of course, Fiona thought, and suddenly an answer to a
mystery had arrived on the wings of Greg's remembered voice.

Mrs. Rome frantically worked to remove the stain. After a
full ten minutes of rubbing and applying cleaning materials, the stain appeared
to be defeated. Then she went back to the kitchen with the cleaning materials and
reappeared soon after and sat down again.

"Now what is this nonsense about Frankie being
murdered?" she asked, making an effort to appear calm.

"It's not nonsense, Mrs. Rome," Fiona said
gently, pausing for a moment. "As you well know."

The woman was sitting on her hands now, but a tremor in her
jaw gave away her inner agitation.

"I ... I shouldn't be talking to you. I..."

Barbara Rome was trying desperately to gather her forces.
Sensing this vulnerability, Fiona pushed ahead. Show no mercy, give no quarter,
she told herself, feeding the blue flame of anger. She glanced toward Cates.
Now, she told him with her eyes. He signaled his understanding with a nod.

"Mrs. Rome," Fiona said. "It was no secret
to you that your husband and Mrs. McGuire were having an affair. Am I
right?"

"What!" It was an effort at indignation. The
woman tried to stand, then sat down again.

"For a year," Fiona said, her voice steady,
carefully modulated and controlled. "...he would leave her bed for yours.
You found out, Mrs. Rome. And when you did..." Fiona allowed herself a
long pause. "...you took action."

"No," she shouted, her voice tremulous. "I
won't stand for this." She managed to rise unsteadily. There was a
telephone on a table nearby and she managed to reach it. With shaking hands,
she picked up the phone, punching in the numbers with clumsy fingers. She had
to do it three times to get it right. Fiona and Cates watched, but made no move
to stop her.

"Mr. Rome," she said into the phone. Her voice
was wispy, agitated, but she seemed to be recovering her poise. "This
minute. Dammit. I don't care. Interrupt him then." Her facade was
collapsing and her inherent bitchery could no longer be hidden. As she waited,
she put her hand over the instrument.

"You had better leave this minute. Both of you. I'll
see to it that you're charged for this. You'll never hear the end of it as long
as you live." Her voice trembled with anger as she lashed out. She was a
woman well-versed in intimidation. The crust of charming superiority had been
shattered. Fiona and Cates stood their ground.

"Charles. These people are here again," she said
into the phone. "That woman detective and that black man. They are saying
crazy things. All sorts of crazy things." Her voice rose on a wave of
hysteria. "I want them out of here this minute. I want you back here. Now.
Do you understand?
Now."
Her face had become pasty under her
make-up. "And I want these people charged. You can't imagine what they've
been saying." She looked suddenly at Fiona and said to Charles, "Here
tell her yourself." She then thrust the phone into Fiona's hand.

"You filthy bitch," Rome shouted into the phone.
"I'll have your ass for this. You gave me your word..."

Fiona replaced the instrument quietly in its cradle.

"We'll wait for him," Fiona said.

"Not I," Barbara Rome said. "I'm getting
dressed and I'm getting out of here." She started to leave the room. Cates
blocked her way.

"A little calm, Mrs. Rome," he said.

"You do have a choice," Fiona said. "We can
pull you in for Murder One now. Or you can wait until your husband
arrives."

Her determination seemed to seep out of her. Her shoulders
hunched and her body wavered as if it had been hit by a heavy gust of wind.

"I'm not saying anything to either of you," she
muttered. She groped her way to the couch and sat down. Hands folded tightly,
she lowered her head slightly and stared at them.

Fiona had seen it before. She had stiffened herself for
stonewalling. A cornered suspect wants to appear to retreat from reality,
except that it was not that simple a task to stop the ears from hearing.

Fiona moved toward the couch and stood over her, feeling
the pressure of time. The impending presence of Charles Rome would stiffen her
resolve. She had to be broken before Rome arrived.

"You've got to face it, Mrs. Rome," Fiona began.

She waited. The woman showed no sign of answering and Fiona
continued.

"You planned it to perfection. You had access to the
cyanide and you knew the way you were going to get it. No sweat there. Mrs.
McGuire had stolen your husband. You confronted him. He confessed. Worse, he
told you she was pregnant by him, something you were never able to achieve
together."