Senator Love (13 page)

"Did she talk about what went on, as you say, outside
your orbit?" Fiona asked. Postcoital pillow talk, she meant.

He nodded his head as if he both understood and appreciated
the subtlety.

"She was an enormously positive person. She loved
being the chatelaine of the Embassy, loved the parties, the political
discussions, loved to dress up, loved jewelry. She was highly educated, and
very serious about many things. She also respected her husband enormously. Like
me, though, she was a romantic and was able to conjure up a rich fantasy
life." He stopped his narrative and looked at her playfully, flashing a
thin but still-dimpled smile. "It was good sex, too, and we both enjoyed
it."

Fiona felt herself flush and knew she had turned red. He
was obviously selling her a picture of total honesty and she was probably
buying it. Although flustered, Fiona managed to fire off a related question.

"Anything that dissatisfied her?" she asked.

"Yes, there was," he said swiftly, emphasizing
his openness. "She resented not being able to legally hold a job. That was
frustrating to her. She had been in business in Europe. She would have
preferred working at something productive instead of the endless round of
events she attended during the day with only women present. In a way, I
suppose, our little meetings gave her a respite from that. Perhaps, at first, she
consented merely to relieve the boredom." He raised a finger in the air.
"At first, I said. Let's say it started out as a small flame and moved
into a conflagration. I think we were both turned on by the danger of it. Can
you understand that, Fiona?"

She knew what he meant. Hadn't she been there herself? She
had seen it, felt it, knew its power. A sudden image invaded her mind. Herself
naked, spread-eagled on the couch on which he sat. He, naked and aroused,
moving to embrace her. She felt her heartbeat accelerate and other, more
personal physical reactions.
My God,
she cried inwardly, forcing herself
to erase the image. Did it show?

"I'm not trying to justify my philandering,
Fiona," he continued. Or had there really been a pause in his explanation
while he observed her, read her thoughts? Again, she felt a burning hot flush
color her face. "I'm only trying to provide some insight into my
motives."

And so you have,
Fiona told
him silently, finally picking up the thread of her interrogation.

"Do you believe that you and the Ambassador were the
only men in Helga's life?"

"I never let myself ask that question," he said.

"Do you believe she was capable of having multiple
affairs?"

He had to mull that over.

"Probably. She was a passionate woman. Sensuality was
important to her."

"And to you."

"Yes. To me as well."

"Did she ever hint to you that she was having another
affair?"

He shook his head. "That would have been the
end."

"A jealous lover, are you?"

"Color it cautious, both physically and emotionally. I
may be reckless, but that could border on self-destruction. Bad enough that the
husband knew."

"And you?"

He lifted his eyes, then narrowed them, as he watched her.
A brief flash of anger roared across his face, then disappeared, like someone
passing through the shadow.

"Actually, you could say I was faithful to her."
He paused, then smiled as if he had suddenly thought of some hilarious joke.
"A married man must always be faithful to his mistress," he said.
This bit of wisdom was delivered as a clever bon mot. She did not react except
to shift her focus to another essential subject.

"And you're certain your wife did not know, know for
certain?"

She knew she was going over old ground. Jealousy, after
all, was primarily a woman's motive. Crime statistics backed that up. She tried
to recall Nell Langford's expression as she observed her husband dancing with
Helga Kessel. Did she know? she had asked Monte. Did she really know?

"I'm not an angel, Fiona. But I love my family. Nell
knows that. She is a very traditional woman. The fact is that, despite my ...
my unfaithfulness, I avoid ... in the way I conduct my family life, giving her
the slightest cause for insecurity."

Translated, this self-deluding explanation equated with
something Bunkie had said about Sam Langford having enough to go around.

"Frankly," the Senator snapped, "I resent
your bringing Mrs. Langford into it."

"Just doing my job," Fiona said. She felt herself
breaking out from his control. "Motive is everything in my business."

"Jesus, Fiona," the Senator erupted. "Not
Nell."

"Sometimes men are damned fools," she pressed.
"You don't expect that I'd believe that she never suspected, never
questioned you, never even raised the issue. Surely there were signs."

"I did my homework," he snapped, raising the curtain
slightly on his cynicism. He was a past master at deception, an expert at
dissimulation, a practitioner of the sugar-coated lie.

"Senator, up to now, I've been grateful for your
candor," she said pointedly, watching him squirm.

"No way," he said. "Not Nell."

"It has its logic. The jealous wife...?"

"She did not know," he said emphatically.
"We saw each other only during the day. We were discreet to a fault."

"Farrington saw to that."

"Impeccably."

"Are you saying that Mrs. Langford never questioned you?"

"Only in a general way," he admitted, apparently
not willing to defend the obvious.

"Because she knew the kind of man she had
married," Fiona pressed.

"My marriage is sacrosanct. It is my oasis and Nell is
fully aware of it."

"The deal was never to bring it home."

"I don't like this," the Senator said. He stood
up and paced the room. "I definitely do not like this." He stopped
suddenly and turned. "You've got to keep her out of it." He was
trying to appear firm, but she could tell he was pleading. "We can't do
this to her. She's an innocent party. I know her. She's not capable of anything
like that."

"Like what?" Fiona asked, waiting for some
inadvertent revelation.

"Like murder."

She had been careful not to mention the method by which
Helga had been killed. Often murderers have confessed based on being tripped up
by information that only they could have known. If the Senator had mentioned
strangulation, the ball game would have been over.

"You'd be surprised how many unlikely candidates have
risen to the occasion."

"I really should resent that," he said angrily.

Figuratively, she pointed both barrels at him now. It was
time to spin a familiar scenario.

"Senator," she began. "A woman marries a
philanderer, she worries, looks for signs, observes. Betrayal is a very
powerful force. You told me yourself she was ... traditional. Therefore, she
had to be ... finessed. Lied to, if you will. Surely there are signs, material
clues. A scent. A makeup stain." She paused as if taking aim. "Sexual
fatigue."

He stood rooted to a spot in the center of the room,
obviously trying to find a role that would fit the circumstances. Observing him
in full view, she noted he was a well-made man, slender, graceful. He wore
pants well and she could not resist imagining what women sometimes imagine when
they study a man's lower body. Again, she slapped her figurative hand. Stop
that.

Suddenly he shook his head.

"Frankly, I hadn't expected all this
psychobabble." She watched him cross the room and fall heavily into his
chair again. "You can overanalyze a thing to death. My wife, Fiona,
accepts me as I am. I suppose you might say there is a compact between us. If
she suspected, she never made it an issue. Our home life is tranquil. Nell is
not ... well ... not like my first wife, who drove me crazy with her
suspicions. But then, I was a little more blatant in those days. Who could
blame her? We had a perfectly civilized divorce after years of a childless
marriage."

Again, he was trying to shift the subject.

"Do you know where Nell was that night?"

"You're still on that, are you?" No longer master
of the agenda, he was exceedingly uncomfortable. "I presume she was home
with the kids. As Bunkie must have told you, I was out with him and
others." He became reflective for a moment. "You have to talk with
her, don't you?" He looked as if he were in pain.

"It's a base that has to be touched," she told
him. Now that she had the upper hand, she supposed she could be magnanimous.
"Everything is in the execution."

"Nell couldn't," he said, pleading.

"Believe me, Senator, there are ways to be
circumspect. I promise you..." She trailed off, not willing to commit in
words. Of course, she would avoid revealing his dirty little secrets. Unless it
was absolutely necessary. Which she hoped it wouldn't be.

"All right," he said suddenly. "I can
understand your asking about Nell. Frankly, I have to admit I was a bit
nonplussed to learn that the Ambassador knew of the affair. But that implies
that he might have had a fling himself with some lady who might have had her
own reasons for eliminating Helga."

He seemed to want to continue, but stopped abruptly,
perhaps regretting his outburst. But it did reveal the cutting edge of his
desperation, which lay just beneath the surface. Surely, it was a possibility
that had already been gone over with Bunkie in the first flush of
damage-control. It was, of course, a lot weaker than the Nell scenario. And far
less volatile.

"In this business, Senator, we peek under every
rock," she said.

"Look," he shrugged. "It hasn't been easy.
Telling you all this. Fact is ... it's a gamble. I admit I'm guilty of
something, but not that—not murder. And I doubt that the others, Bunkie, Nell,
even Monte, could ever..." He paused. "...Ever. These are good
people. We are talking here of taking a human life." He seemed to be
slipping into morbidity. "To destroy our lives on nothing more than the
flimsiest of evidence..." His voice trailed off.

"I told you, Senator. I fully understand the
consequences for you. I'll do my best. Keep the circle as small as
possible."

"Sure," he said, with obvious hesitation.

She stood up. More than an hour had passed.

"I may have more questions," she said.

"I'm sure you will." He stood up, took her hand,
held it. "In a way, you might say we're innocent victims." He smiled,
dimples popping.

"Innocent is a loaded word, Senator."

"You know what I mean."

He continued to hold her hand, and she made no effort to
remove hers.

"We're political people," he said. Up close his
blue eyes shone bright, penetrating. For a moment, they monopolized her and she
felt the strange thrill of his total attention. "Be gentle."

He had continued to hold her hand. Then, lifting his other
one, he enveloped hers. His flesh felt warm as he applied a light pressure. He
knew his power over women.

Then he said something that confounded her, offering a
crude but compelling image that seemed to reach for a level she was not
prepared to confront.

"You have my balls in your hands, Fiona."

Only then did he release her as she turned and, hot-faced
and ashamed, strode toward the door.

THERE WAS no avoiding it. She and Cates would have to be
prepared to face the eggplant. He would insist on being "apprahzed"
and what he was being "apprahzed" about had better pass muster, which
meant that if they were planning any editing it had better be constructed with
great care.

By the time she got back to the squad room, the Helga story
was in orbit. The radio stations were playing it big, complete with
inflammatory words like "beauty," "nude body," and
"disgorged from a shallow grave." There was also some hint of foreign
intrigue. Ambassador Kessel was described as a "potentially important
Austrian leader with a brilliant political future," and she assumed that
he, too, would be scrambling to protect his public image.

The eggplant was liberally quoted in the initial stories.
He would be loving it and looking forward to his appearances on national and
international television. To his credit, he was extremely articulate and clever
when facing the media. Wisely, and accurately, he had pointed out that "so
far" no motive for the murder had been uncovered. Tomorrow's
Washington
Post
and surely major newspapers throughout the world would carry the story
on their front pages.

So far Senator Langford was not mentioned in any of the
radio stories, nor was there any hint of a romantic attachment, a "secret
affair" between him and the deceased. It was, in fact, too early for such
a report to emerge. One could be assured, however, that the members of the
Fourth Estate were on the case, scrambling for scraps to give the story more
"spin."

Cates had said he would be back in a couple of hours. She
looked at her watch. A couple of hours had already passed.

Her interview with Langford had left her unsettled for
reasons beyond the case itself. It would not be easy to sort it out in her
mind. Confronting one's own vulnerability was always a shock, but the fact was
that she had been moved by the Senator. Alone in her thoughts, she challenged
the euphemism and, after finally surrendering, defined it for what it was ... a
sexual turn-on. All the physical signs were present and it annoyed her.

Was it something self-motivating, emanating from deep
inside of herself? Or a deliberate act of subtle manipulation on his part? She
wondered. The man knew he had that ability. It had, apparently, been validated
again and again. He had as much as admitted it. And if he did have that power,
he had no right to use it on her, a professional homicide detective in pursuit
of a criminal. It was, of course, an absurd concept on her part, like blaming
the bartender for giving the drink to the alcoholic. Cease and desist, she
begged herself, gathering her concentration, flogging herself forward into the
maze of investigatory details concerning Helga Kessel.

Calling Dr. Benton, she got a confirmation of how the woman
had died. Strangulation, garroted by a soft object of textile construction.
Bits of thread discovered around the victim's neck had been sent to the lab.
From the marks on her flesh, Dr. Benton had indicated that she had been taken
from behind.

"No other signs of violence?" she asked.

"None," he replied. "She was an excellent
specimen, in good health. No pregnancy. No evidence of rape. No trace of sperm.
A simple case of strangulation."

"What about time frame?" She had been making
assumptions based more on experience than science.

"From the contents of the stomach, I'd say she died in
midmorning, before lunch." She never questioned Dr. Benton's accuracy.
Only when there were doubts in his own mind did he offer multiple
possibilities. She trusted him implicitly. It was a relief to know that she had
not been far off. Killed in the morning. Buried at dark.

"Were there any signs that she might have been killed
elsewhere, then transported to the scene of her burial?"

"I can offer an educated guess," Dr. Benton said,
and when she did not respond, he continued. "The killer would have had to
be extremely careful in his method of transportation. I'd say she was killed
very close to where she was buried. Stripped at the site."

It occurred to her suddenly that she might have been too
cursory in her eyeball inspection of the body. She remembered that she had
observed Helga's jewelry at Mount Vernon the other evening. The emerald
necklace and large diamond bracelet and rings. This was, she speculated, a
woman with a European's appreciation for jewelry, the real thing. She thought
suddenly of Betty Taylor's barely visible ankle bracelet, a wide leap, to be
sure. But the comparison was inescapable. She let it simmer for the moment.

"Nothing foreign on the body? No adornments? Jewelry?
Gold geegaws?"

"Only the gold crowns on her teeth. Two of those. She
did have pierced ears, but no earrings."

As he spoke, another detail leaped into her mind.

"What about a marriage ring?" she asked.

She waited through a long pause.

"Fiona, my dear, I must be slipping. She wasn't
wearing any. Nor any rings."

She was assailed suddenly by new scenarios, like new
tributaries branching out from a river's strong flow.

"Forensically speaking," Fiona said. It was her
usual qualifier when delving into the nether-nether world of the nagging hunch.
She knew he would be bracing himself mentally. "Does it read like the
other—the old bones?"

"Both strangled. A similar method. But there's no way
of telling for sure what material was employed on the older victim. Could have
been something made of textile. Could have been a rope. Or bare hands."

"I was looking for a signature."

"I know."

"They were both buried in backyards."

"We were talking forensics," Dr. Benton said with
some amusement, "and death by strangulation is a rather common method
employed to murder females."

"True ... nevertheless..."

"Thirteen years is a long time between murders,"
Dr. Benton cautioned in a fatherly way. Often, he played the devil's advocate
when Fiona put her imagination into play.

"Murders that we know of," Fiona countered.

"A serial killer?"

"With either a long delayed fuse or we have merely
uncovered two bodies in the sequence."

"A theory not to be overlooked," Dr. Benton
lectured. "I'd give it middling priority as a viable possibility. The
signature, method of causing death and body disposal, is more circumstantial
than scientific. Fill in the sequence and your theory would rush to the top of
the list."

"Calls for a coffee klatch," Fiona said. Often,
they spent long hours together in Dr. Benton's living room, amid the memorial
mementos of his beloved, long-departed wife, theorizing, exploring
possibilities, unraveling mysteries, challenging each other in an affectionate
and loving game of cat and mouse. It was always an exhilarating experience. Dr.
Benton's scientific mind bore witness as a surrogate for the victim. "I
speak for the dead, who cannot speak for themselves," he said often.

Her conversation with Dr. Benton, aside from opening up a
random serial-killer theory, had also sparked another idea, triggered by her
memory of Helga's obvious fondness for expensive jewelry. She had to talk with
Ambassador Kessel, but when she picked up the phone, she hung up quickly. No
telephones.

Odd, she thought, how quickly she was falling into the
mind-set of Washington's movers and shakers in the age of high-tech. Telephone
paranoia was now an endemic political disease. She understood the logic, of
course, but it had never loomed so menacing in her mind. Was it a given that
all embassies, friend or foe, were under surveillance by our intelligence
services? She thought of the opportunities for blackmail if, for example, a
foreign power or even a domestic intelligence service had the goods on a powerful
American politician or even a sitting President. The idea was chilling. She
decided to see Ambassador Kessel in person.

SHE FOUND him in the study of the official residence. His
mood was somber. She had had difficulty getting through the barrier of an officious
young aide apparently assigned by the Ambassador to screen all calls and
prevent all visitations.

"I'm sorry," he said when she came in. "I'm
afraid it's shaken me up very badly." He appeared to be genuinely grieving
and upset. "She mattered a great deal to me." His superior air of
containment seemed to have disintegrated. Everything about him seemed to have
changed. His usually impeccable grooming had given way to sloppiness. His
clothes were badly creased and he sat slumped in a chair, as if his bones had
turned to jelly. His face was red and puffy and he had undoubtedly been crying.

"Why would anyone have killed my beauty?" he
said, his voice breaking. Beside him was a brandy bottle and a half-filled
glass of amber liquid. He reached for it, lifted it to his lips and sipped.
"Devastating. Absolutely devastating."

His reaction struck her as incongruous. His stated value
system in connection with his marriage could not foreshadow his present
condition. Not to Fiona, who, despite her occupation and experiences, still
cherished the idea of the old verities.

"Everything hinges on motivation," she said,
taking a seat on the couch opposite. "I need to know something."

He lifted his head and studied her, waiting for her to
continue.

"Did she wear a marriage ring?" she asked.

He looked at her strangely, his head cocked in a pose of
curiosity. Apparently an open marriage did not mean that the traditional
symbols and rituals of the institution had been totally abandoned.

"Of course," he said. His gaze roamed the room.
There were numerous pictures displayed of him and his wife with prominent
celebrities. She noted that where Helga's left hand showed, the engagement and
wedding rings were quite visible. Also other pieces of jewelry, depending on
whether the pictures were taken during the day or evening.

Reaching out, he picked up one from a forest of pictures on
the table beside him and held it close to Fiona. It showed him and Helga with
the Vice-President, a more-or-less candid shot taken at a luncheon. Helga looked
particularly lovely, but then her high cheekbones and lean graceful body,
always exquisitely groomed, made her exceedingly photogenic. He pointed to the
finger of her left hand and explained, "Note that her engagement ring is
worn above her marriage ring. Her wedding ring was diamonds and platinum and
the engagement ring is a flawless diamond stone of five carats."

Again she could not shake the comparison to the Betty
Taylor case. Mrs. Taylor had also reached over to show her a picture of the
victim, had also failed to relinquish it, as if somehow such an act would make
the picture disappear.

"I'm sure they were quite expensive."

"Expensive?" He offered a wan smile.
"Everything about Helga was expensive. We are very comfortable, Detective
FitzGerald. I enjoyed buying her exquisite things."

He replaced the picture, but not before Fiona had also
noted Helga's earrings. They also appeared to be made of precious stones. She
remembered the matching emerald earrings that Helga had worn at Mount Vernon.
And the diamond bracelet.

"Did she wear the wedding and engagement rings every
day?"

"Of course. Doesn't a married woman always wear her
wedding and engagement rings every day?" He seemed affronted and his eyes
drifted down to Fiona's hands.

"I'm not married," Fiona said defensively. She
repressed a brief tremor of anger. "As you might have guessed, Mr.
Ambassador, her body was stripped of everything, including jewelry."

He was learning this for the first time, although he surely
surmised what she had been getting at. Often, next of kin did not ask or
inquire about the victim's effects at the time of identification. He was aware,
though, that she had been buried naked. He shook his head in disgust.

"But to kill for that? Confronted with the danger,
Helga would have handed them over."

"Perhaps she did. And saw the robber."

"Still," the Ambassador said, "to
kill?"

"People kill for less," Fiona said with a sigh.

The Ambassador lowered his eyes and clasped his hands and
she allowed him his moment of grieving silence.

"Would she have worn other jewelry during the day as
well?" she asked when she felt it appropriate.

"Undoubtedly."

"Would you know what that might normally be?"

"Certainly a bracelet, necklace, earrings, even
another ring. Helga adorned herself liberally. She was, as you saw, a woman of
great style. I purchased many of the pieces as gifts. Often, she would buy
something herself. It had to be the real thing. She was very European in that
regard."

"Where did she keep them?"

"We have a wall safe in the bedroom."

"Is there an inventory?"

"I believe so. We did not insure all the pieces."

"Would you mind checking the inventory for me?"

"If it will help find Helga's murderer, I'll do
anything."

"It would be enormously helpful. We know her valuable
rings are missing. Might be other pieces as well. Tracing these items is very
difficult, but it would be something to hang our hat on. A clue, if you will.
Certainly it gives us a credible motive."

She studied his reaction to this carefully. A robbery
motive would get them all off the hook, the Senator and his inner circle,
including Nell. The Ambassador, too, would be free from suspicion.

He nodded his agreement, but his mind seemed to be drifting
back to his grief, which seemed quite genuine. She stood up and observed him for
a long moment. There was another issue that had begun to nag at her earlier,
but she had filed it away. It surfaced again and she confronted it.

"I know this might seem rather crass and unfeeling,
Mr. Ambassador, but I must address another issue that you might think out of
line."