Senator Love (17 page)

Bunkie's nostrils quivered as he sucked in a deep breath.
All the Ivy League arrogance had run out of him like air from a punctured tire.

"I didn't do these things," he whispered. "I
couldn't." His eyes welled with tears and he wiped what spilled over with
the cuffs of his jacket. "The question here is, how will this impact
on..." He moved his hands in a way that suggested that he was too choked
up to continue. It was hard, Fiona decided, to generate any sympathy for the
man. The craft of acting was part and parcel of a politician's arsenal, extending
to his staff and sycophants.

"Make it easy, Bunkie," Fiona said gently,
falling into the good-cop role, knowing that the eggplant would take off the
gloves now. He got up from the leather wing chair and moved toward Bunkie.

"You're a fucking killer, man," the eggplant
said. He stooped down and grabbed Bunkie's jacket, half-lifting him from the
couch. "We're going to fry your ass one way or another. Hard or easy,
you're finished."

The eggplant's face butted close to Bunkie's. His bloodshot
eyes were popping and he was blowing sour breath in his face. The eggplant was
doing his "physical intimidation" act now. She had seen it work
before. Bunkie's body hung limply above the couch, like a puppet whose strings
had suddenly been cut. He made no effort to resist.

"I'm no killer," he insisted.

"Fucking liar," the eggplant sneered, pushing him
back on the couch. He paced the room like a caged animal, then came back and
pointed a finger at Bunkie's nose.

"We'll squeeze you like a grapefruit. We'll be on your
ass day or night, Farrington. One day other bodies will turn up."

Up to then he had been accepting the intimidation with only
the mildest protest. Now he seemed to have pulled some strength from a hidden
resource.

"Destroy for the sake of destroying, would you?"
Bunkie said. His voice seemed stronger, and his confidence level had risen
considerably. She could not understand why. "That would be damned shitty.
Least you could do is give us the benefit of the doubt. We're not
killers."

"Sure. The jails are full of innocent guys. We just
put people away for fun."

But the fire was burning out in the eggplant as well. None
of the strategies was working. Innocent or guilty? She wasn't sure. None of
them could be sure.

There was something else troubling her. Bunkie was certainly
the logical suspect. He had openly admitted his connection. But something was
awry and she felt a troubling barrier between the obvious and the real truth.

The fact was that all the evidence presented was
circumstantial. No confession. No case. Not yet. They'd have to keep digging.
They'd have to check out Harriet Farley and Judy Something. Were they, too,
buried in someone's backyard?

"I'm no angel," Bunkie managed to croak, sensing
that the tension had eased. "But I didn't kill anybody."

"We'll see, won't we?" the eggplant said. He had
stopped his pacing and now leaned against a wall. He looked toward Fiona,
widened his eyes and gazed toward the ceiling. His message was obvious. No
point in pursuing the interrogation any longer. The parameters had been set.
They'd need more evidence before Bunkie would break. He was either acting,
stonewalling or truly innocent. One thing was certain. No confession was
forthcoming. If guilty, he had opted to play out the string and there was
nothing they could do to force the issue.

Bunkie uncrossed his legs and folded his hands around them.
His knuckles were white, yet he seemed to have finally taken command of himself
again, although he was emerging as someone else. He was, Fiona knew, exercising
the chameleon option, the politician's last resort, changing colors in
mid-campaign.

"You can destroy us politically with this," he
said. "You know it and I know it and soon Sam will know it. Even if we're
innocent, which we are. Neither Sam nor I is guilty of any of this. I don't
know how or why these terrible things occurred. Could be coincidence. I don't
know. But the least you can do, without any other corroborating evidence, is to
protect us. Is that too much to ask?"

"Might be," the eggplant said, leaving open the
possibility. If, indeed, they were innocent, he would not want to lose the chit
he had earned. "Hard to keep these things from the media."

"I wish Sam were here," Bunkie said. Obviously,
he had realized that he had gone as far as he could go by himself.

"You're welcome to use the phone," the eggplant
said.

No way,
Fiona thought, and
he made no move to look for a telephone.

"May I go now?" he asked, standing up,
straightening his jacket. A flash of arrogance had returned, which was puzzling
to Fiona.

"For the moment," the eggplant muttered.

"I know you'll want to speak with the Senator,"
Bunkie said, shooting a glance at Fiona. "And you can bank on his
cooperation." He started to walk, then stopped. "We have nothing to
do with this. Once more can I prevail on you to keep this quiet? I mean as far
as the media is concerned."

"We'll do our best," the eggplant said, pausing.
"Up to a point."

"What point is that, Captain?"

"The point that heads in your direction,
Farrington," the eggplant said. It was intended as a threat, but for some
reason it seemed to lack teeth, as if even the eggplant was losing conviction.
Again Bunkie started to move, but there was something contrived in the way he
was doing it, the cadence, perhaps, as if all along he was preparing to turn and
confront them. Her observation proved correct. As he exited the den, he turned.

"Judy something," he said. "I remember her
name. Peters. Judy Peters." He stood there watching them, making no move
to leave. "I said I haven't heard from her since my conversation. I
haven't. But she's very much alive. I just saw her picture on the cover of a
cookbook."

JUDY PETERS lived in a townhouse on P Street, renovated to
take advantage of every architectural strategy to make the house seem more
light, airy and spacious than it really was. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a
mirrored wall, a painting with a long-distance perspective, hanging plants,
exposed blonde wood beams and bookcases snaking everywhere screamed out the
pretense of the intellectual and superior taste level of the occupant.

From her vantage in the living room, Fiona could see the
professional-size kitchen with its array of butcher block surfaces, hanging
pots and up-to-date cooking devices, including a gold-plated cappucino machine,
the obvious signature of a woman who writes cookbooks. On the coffee table in
front of the couch where Fiona and Cates were seated were an array of these
books, all by Ms. Peters, dealing with gourmet cooking sans such ingredients as
salt, sugar, eggs and red meat. One was titled,
Cuisine Without Pesticides
.
Ms. Peters, Fiona decided, had indeed found her
ouvre
.

The woman herself was tall and slender, with a
high-cheek-boned esthetic face that went well with the house. She wore a long
belted sweater and an expensive-looking, egg-shaped clock hanging from a beaded
necklace. Her wrists were festooned with lines of gold bracelets.

Ms. Peters reeked with feminine militancy. Miss would
simply not fit the subject. Her brown eyes peeking out from long lashes,
despite an effort to appear serene, seemed wary, guarded. She had agreed to see
them on the usual grounds of confidentiality, although from her initial
questions on the telephone Fiona detected an inordinate curiosity. They had, of
course, concocted a subterfuge, deliberately vague, something merely hinted at,
about a scheme to blackmail Senator Langford. They were, of course, careful not
to use the word blackmail.

"I'm not part of it?" she had asked with a dollop
of expectation.

"Not yet," Fiona had answered, her voice pregnant
with warning.

Fiona attributed Judy Peters' consent to the side-effects
of what she called the "star-fucker syndrome." In Washington this was
usually the affliction of women who interpreted participation in the political
process as a sexual connection with an important politician or other powerful
figure. Although most of those who were victims of the syndrome were the first
to deny it in themselves, they were an accepted part of the fabric of the
Capitol. Nor could Fiona deny to herself that there was some special excitement
in it, a tantalizing temptation despite all the caveats and pitfalls.

Which was not to say that Ms. Peters was a typical example.
But Fiona had found that after years had gone by, women who had
"star-fucked" were not reluctant to discuss it. Jack Kennedy's women,
for example, had been blabbing all over town for years.

Both Cates and Fiona had accepted her offer for, what else,
cappucino, which they sipped from cream white cups.

After their abortive interrogation of Bunkie Farrington
they had all agreed that if this was, as it had originally appeared, a kind of
serial crime, they had better discover what had gone wrong with the serial and,
consequently, their logic. All were also agreed, however, that there was a
direct relationship between the murders of Helga Kessel and Betty Taylor.

"Yes, I did," Judy Peters acknowledged, after
Fiona had finally posed the question. The initial opening had been the usual
small-talk of ingratiation and the eliciting of biographical details. Judy
Peters had been a legislative aide on the Hill until she had discovered
cookbook-writing. She had actually been a legislative assistant to another
Senator at the time of her meeting with Senator Langford. Not long after, she
had joined the Senator's staff as a speechwriter.

She showed no embarrassment at the revelation.

"I came of sexual age in the sixties," she
explained. "I was as much to blame as him."

Fiona figured Ms. Peters for a couple of years older than
herself, but of the same mind-set when it came to men. Sitting beside her,
Cates fidgeted. Being younger and having grown up under the strict supervision
of a stern mother, Cates rarely alighted conversationally on the subject of sex
and, in the course of business, would deal with it in rigid, clinical terms.
When he made an effort to loosen up on the subject, his comments were always
forced and hollow.

"It was ages ago, of course," Judy Peters
clarified. She closed her eyes to dramatize her calculation. "Eight
years."

"And how long did it last?"

"Oh, no more than six months."

"How was it conducted?"

"Ah yes, the modus operandi," Ms. Peters said,
smiling. "Sweet impulsive youth. He was gorgeous. Still is. I adored him.
We met a couple of times a week at a house on the Hill."

"Bunkie Farrington's?"

"Now there is a first-class prick," Judy Peters
said.

Fiona wanted to acknowledge agreement, but kept quiet. She
cut a glance at Cates, who smiled.

"You met at his townhouse?"

"I must say, Officer FitzGerald, you know a great
deal."

"There were others," Fiona acknowledged.

"Oh, I'm sure of that. The man was irresistible."
She laughed. "And insatiable." She showed not the slightest
embarrassment. "He also brought out the tigress in a girl."

"Did you rate it as a real romantic attachment?"
Fiona asked.

"A love affair, you mean," Ms. Peters said.

Fiona nodded

"Most definitely that. A glorious, romantic love
affair."

"Were the feelings mutual?"

"Very much so. It took a great effort for us to keep
our hands off each other. I would often find excuses to get to his
office." She paused. "God, we were like rutting pigs."

"People noticed?"

"Only those who weren't blind. That probably led to
our undoing. He had been married less than six months. Can you imagine? Six
months. She found out." Ms. Peters shook her head. Fiona and Cates exchanged
glances. "I felt awful." She straightened in her chair and caught
Fiona in her gaze. "One thing I'm not is a home-wrecker."

"How did she find out?" Cates asked. By their
immutable law of unseen signals, it became his turn to ask the questions. Judy
Peters shifted her attention seamlessly. She seemed to enjoy talking about it.

"Someone told her."

"How do you know?" Cates asked.

She sucked in a deep breath, and for a moment her eyes lost
their sparkle, glazing over.

"She told me."

Fiona's heart lurched. Cates pressed on.

"In person?"

"On the telephone. Called me at the office. She said
she had heard that I was having an affair with her husband. I was shocked. I
lost the power of speech. What was I supposed to say? I was also ashamed. Oh, I
thought of the possibility of being the third Mrs. Langford. To his credit, he
never hinted at that as a possibility. Wouldn't have worked anyhow. I like my
freedom."

She was drifting and Cates pulled her back.

"Did you tell her it was true?"

"I'm one of those people who are constitutionally
unable to tell a lie. I said yes. I was." She shook her head. "I
remember there was a long silence. Then she said, 'Can you see your way clear
to end it? You see, I'm pregnant.' Christ, I felt
that
small." She
made the appropriate gesture, then fell silent.

"What did you do?"

"I said I was sorry that she had found out, that I
never meant to hurt her."

"And the ending of it?"

"There and then. I went in and saw Farrington. That
was his department. I said bye-bye as of that moment."

"Not to the Senator."

"I was too embarrassed. And I didn't want to face him.
Cut it clean. That's what I was after. To get the hell out of there."

"And what did Bunkie say?" Cates asked.

"Best all around or somesuch. He sounded relieved. In
a way I was, too. It was getting out of hand."

"Did you tell him about the call from Mrs.
Langford?"

"I didn't want to. But, for Sam's sake, I thought it
wise."

"Did you ever call Mrs. Langford and ask her how she
found out?" Cates asked.

"No, I didn't."

"Who do you think told her?"

"God knows. The fact was that our affair was so
blatant that anyone with malicious intent might have done it."

"Are you sure it was Mrs. Langford who called?"
Fiona asked.

Judy Peters' eyes opened wide.

"No, I wasn't." She paused, bit her lip.
"Maybe it wouldn't have mattered. Brought me to my senses. It was time to
go. I wasn't a damned fool. I had a great time. He was the best..." Her
voice trailed off but her smile remained.

"Did Mrs. Langford, the voice on the phone, imply any
dire consequences if you kept up the affair?" Fiona asked cautiously.

"Dire consequences?"

"Like cut it out ... or else." Cates said.

"Or else? Sounds ominous." She thought about it
for a moment. "No, she didn't. That would have ticked me off. Made me
stick with it. The fact is I knew I couldn't compete with her, not in the real
world."

"The real world?" Fiona pressed.

"The lady was loaded. Family in real estate, oil,
precious metals. All those goodies. She was right out of central casting.
Perfect mate for an ambitious young Senator. No contest." She lowered her
eyes, reflected a moment, then said: "I went on into the sunset like a
good little girl. Went off to Europe actually ... the very next day."

"Is that what Farrington suggested?"

"I wouldn't listen to that prick. Fact is I understood
why I had to go, even as a kind of plaything. Sam had little choice. A very
rich and very pregnant wife. His political career. You know what it means. You
have to pretend to be someone you're not. The great unwashed wants you to be a
saint. What could I do? I was up there on the Hill. I knew the score."

"Do you think Sam, while you and he ... do you believe
he was unfaithful to you?" Fiona asked. It was, she was certain, a
question that only a woman might ask another woman and get the correct answer.
Judy Peters looked past her into the mirror that was behind the couch, studying
herself. After a while, she said,

"I don't think so. Maybe, but I don't think so."

She did not elaborate. It was an answer with many layers of
meaning. Sam was, after all, unfaithful by virtue of his marriage. An old
story, Fiona knew. A mistress rarely counted the wife as "the other
woman." Judy Peters' revelation, Fiona noted, stopped at that point. What
she held back was hers—deeply personal and hers alone. In that moment, Fiona
could tell that this was more than a lady who had just wanted to put a scalp of
a powerful man on her belt. Despite her telling it now, there had been more to
it. She had been, Fiona was certain, deeply hurt. She had loved the man.

"And that was that?" Fiona asked.

"Best thing that ever happened. Going cold
turkey." She snapped her fingers. "Stayed in France for a year. Went
to the Cordon Bleu cooking school in Gay Paree. As you can see"—her hand
swept the room—"it changed my life."

"Have you seen him since you've been back?" Fiona
asked.

"Sam?" She smiled and her gaze seemed to turn
inward. "From a distance sometimes. Once we exchanged a look or two ... as
the song says ... across a crowded room. Oh yes. My heart still goes
pitter-patter." She snapped back to reality. "I wouldn't want to see
Sam hurt in any way. That's why I'm telling you this. Politics is a sick
business. Lots of people standing around ready to take potshots, especially now
that he's moving up."

"Did it occur to you that it might have been someone
other than Mrs. Langford who had called?" Fiona asked gently.

She grew silent, turning over a private thought. "That
would be a laugh. Someone put up to do that. Never know with these bastards. I
wouldn't put it past Bunkie Farrington." Fiona noted that she hadn't
accused the Senator of such conduct.

"Or some scorned woman?" Fiona asked.

"Could be. Every woman that ever got caught in his
aura might be suspect then." Her eyes locked into Fiona's. "Sounds
incredible, doesn't it?" Her nostrils quivered as she drew in a deep
breath. "You have no idea about this man's attraction."

Oh, yes I do,
Fiona thought.
Oh, yes I do.