Senator Love (27 page)

"And what do you get for your revelation?" Fiona
asked.

"I go off into the sunrise."

Fiona paused, continuing to observe the woman. She still
lay awkwardly on her side, her eyes wild, her lips twisted in ridicule.

"I'm listening," Fiona said.

The woman giggled again.

"All right then. I know you'll do it."

Fiona did not respond, her gaze drifting. Outside the car,
the shadows were deepening. She looked out to the slate grey of the Potomac,
which was now turning to black. The woman's voice brought her back.

"Helga's jewels are planted in a flowerpot on Bunkie's
front stoop."

"Fascinating stuff," Fiona said, wondering if she
really meant it.

"That's not all," Frances said. "I sprinkled
some of the dirt from Helga's grave on the floor of Bunkie's car. In those
hard-to-find places, as they say on TV."

"The criminal mind at work."

"If we need more I have more."

"More what?"

"Evidence. Isn't that the way police convict
people?"

"You're really nuts," Fiona said, embarrassed by
her own remark. Of course she was. Off the wall. Then why was she listening?
Why wasn't she bringing her in?

"Either you want Sam or you don't. Putting me away
won't do it for you."

Fiona paused, then shook her head, but it was the hesitation
that gave her away. The light was dimming, although there was still enough of
it for her to see the woman's eyes, intense and glowing orange as they caught
the last gasp of the setting sun.

"Stick your hand on my chest," Frances said.

"Jesus. That, too."

"Don't be ridiculous. Just put your hand in and pull
out the locket."

"You are too much," Fiona said. But her words
belied her action. She moved fast, put her hand on the woman's blouse, ripped
it open, found the locket and ripped it off her.

"You didn't have to break it, for crying out loud.
Besides, you hurt me."

Fiona pried open the locket with her fingernails. Something
soft was inside. It seemed like hair. Human hair.

"The black is Betty's. Stands up pretty good, don't
you think. The blonde is Helga's. Car was too mangled to get at Harriet."

"A real collector." It was sick, gruesome.

"Got to have something for my efforts," Frances
said, giggling again. "I would only use the Helga hair, though."

"I don't get it."

She reminded Fiona of a flawed jigsaw puzzle in which
pieces fitted perfectly into an illogical pattern. What was needed was for
someone to recut the pieces to make a more understandable picture. The idea had
jumped into her mind. What evil alchemy did Frances practice to summon up such
bizarre behavior, such weird ideas?

Then it came to her. She saw it with pristine sharpness.
She could save Sam, save his career, save his aspirations. Was it possible? She
shook away the thought, tried to exorcise the idea.

"You are a filthy little demented bitch," Fiona
said, turning in her seat, gunning the motor, starting the car. "It's a
lie about the jewelry and you know it."

"The proof is in the pudding," Frances said.

She headed the car back toward Capitol Hill. It was almost
completely dark. They would be concerned by now. The eggplant would be fuming,
berating Cates. She resisted any temptation to contact them. What was churning
in her mind now could not be shared.

Bunkie's townhouse was just a stone's throw from the Ninth
Street exit of the 605. She made the distance in less than ten minutes and
pulled up in front of it. No lights were visible. It was obvious that Bunkie
had not come home. Getting on her knees on the front seat, she bent over and
lifted Frances' head so that she could see out of the window.

"The one on the left. Just get a hold of a fistful of
plant and pull. The jewelry is in a plastic bag."

Fiona pushed the woman away roughly, got out of the car,
its motor still running. She bent over the flowerpot and, as Frances had
instructed her, gave the plant a quick pull. It came out in tightly packed
earth the shape of the flowerpot. At the bottom of the pot lay a pile of jewels
in a plastic bag. She put the jewels into her shoulder bag and replaced the
plant.

It was not the time to reflect. Events were simply moving
ahead of her. She got into the car again.

"You see them?" Frances asked. Because of her
position in the back of the car she couldn't see out of the window.

"Yes."

"You see? I was telling the truth."

"Now Helga's hair. We mustn't forget that. Where would
you put the hairs?"

"I'd have to get inside. Maybe put them on a pair of
jeans. Something like that."

"See how easy it would be? The jewels, the dirt, the
hair. Pin it on the bastard. Put a bullet in his brain. Say he attacked you. Then
you find the evidence. Pow. Then it's only a simple case of robbery. No trial.
No bullshit."

Fiona turned to look at the woman again. She was smiling.

"Do I get a good mark on that, Miss Cop? Enough to get
a ticket out of here?"

"It has its charm," Fiona whispered.

"And we'd save the day for the man we both love."

The idea had an odd fascination. She should run it through
her mind, just for kicks, she told herself.

"We'd be framing the man," Fiona said hoarsely,
goading Frances to believe in her sincerity.

"Who deserves it more?"

Fiona gunned the motor and guided the car back to the 605.
She headed the car west.

"See the beauty of it?" Frances said from the
rear seat.

"It does have cachet," Fiona muttered.

Indeed, the exercise did have its own twisted logic. Fiona
was putting it in perspective now, understanding her own motives. It might be
worth considering, she thought, even if it were only theory.

"Where are we going?" Frances asked.

"Georgetown."

"You taking me home?"

Fiona didn't answer. A matrix was forming in her mind and
she was surrendering to the fascination.

She had the jewels. She had Helga's hair. She could find
the appropriate places to plant them in Frances' Georgetown house. They would
be found later. After.

Take it further, Fiona prodded herself, speculating that
Frances was probably still concocting ways to eliminate her. Hadn't that been
her object all along?

The scenario spun itself out in her head. She might just
give Frances the golden opportunity to achieve her objective. Fiona's mind raced
with possibilities. Authenticity was, of course, essential. Frances' modus
operandi was fixed in her mind, the use of the garrote, murder by
strangulation. Naturally, Fiona would have to make the scarf available. It was
right there beside her on the seat.

She would be on her guard, ready to counterattack. There
would have to be a struggle, then Fiona would fire her pistol in
self-protection. One shot direct to the heart. Maybe two.

There would be a hearing, of course. The jewels would be
found. Helga's hairs would be found. Verdict: A homicide detective kills a
suspect in self-defense. In the absence of a rebuttal, the suspect is
circumstantially guilty. Loose ends would have to be tied. Maybe there would be
a period of suspension. Maybe not. They would put the Betty Taylor case on ice.

And Sam would be free to pursue his career without fear. He
was finished with that kind of a life, wasn't he? And Fiona would be his secret
mistress, his only love, and perhaps someday ... ?

WOULD SHE have, really?

Perhaps it was instinct. But if, at precisely that moment,
she had not contacted the eggplant, would she have really gone ahead with it?

"Where the hell have you been?" the eggplant
shouted.

His urgent scratchy macho voice pulled her back from the
edge of the abyss. She did not have time to answer. His next question, which
should have been his first, came too fast: "Are you okay?"

"She had us going. It wasn't Bunkie."

"Did she try to do you?"

"Bungled it. She was waiting for me in my back seat.
Amateur job. I got her trussed up and raving in the back of the car. I'll fill
you in."

"You should have called in," he said, but there
was no bite to his rebuke.

"Bitch kept me busy. Took me more time to get what we
needed," she told him. Later, she would use that explanation to absolve
herself of the guilt of intention. "I got it all, even a little
extra."
Got more than I bargained for
, she thought.

"Our boy has bit the bullet," the eggplant said.

The words panicked her. Our boy? Sam?

"He killed himself?" The question rushed out of
her before she could stop it.

"Killed his political career. Held this press
conference couple of hours ago. He's not going to go for President and he's not
going to run for the Senate after his term is over."

"It's a trick," Frances screeched from the back
seat. She had heard it all.

"What was that?" the eggplant asked.

"Lady Macbeth without the guilt," Fiona said.

"Smart move on his part," the eggplant said.
"No matter what. The shit would slop onto him. Better to leave with
dignity at the top of his form. Can't say we didn't try to protect the
son-of-a-bitch."

"We tried, all right."
Harder than you think.

"Kind of a classy thing to do on his part," the
eggplant said. "Said he wanted to spend more time with his family. Of
course, he had no choice."

"Almost did," Fiona whispered.

"Didn't hear you," the eggplant said.

"Wasn't important." She cleared her throat.
"But I quite agree. He is a classy guy." In her heart she said
good-bye. All in all, she told herself, smiling, it was worth it, every bit of
it.

She turned again to look at Frances, a sad sight, a mind
obliterated by hate, committed to vengeance, an ugly and obscene woman. They
would put her away in some hospital. Perhaps someday she would walk the streets
again. Fiona felt her insides congeal.

"So bring home the bacon," the eggplant said.

"Cates must be pissed."

"He's sitting right here. Followed Bunkie right back
to the office. Man was loyal to the end. Stood behind his man at the press
conference."

"Say Hi," Fiona said, feeling suddenly cleansed
as she turned the car and headed toward police headquarters.

"Had you going," Frances said from the back seat.

"No way," Fiona said, suddenly thinking of her
old man. "We FitzGeralds always wind up doing the right thing."