The Ties That Bind (17 page)

"Is what, Farley?"

"It's part of it..."

"Along with the graffiti?"

"Yes," he admitted. "I told you, I went too
far."

"With me and her," Fiona snapped.

"With you. It was meant to be theatrics."

"The tie-ups, the blindfold and the gag, the leather,
the paddle."

"They're props of the game. You know that, Fiona. Do I
assume that it ... our incident ... was your only exposure?"

"Yes, it was."

"If I recall correctly, some parts of it were quite
stimulating for you."

She felt a flash of heat rise to her face and a familiar
sensation surge through her body, which she fought off acknowledging. She
cursed her vulnerability.

"I stick by my theory, Farley."

"I understand your strategy, Fiona, and I'm here to
tell you it won't work. In the first place, I am innocent. In the second place,
I doubt if any evidence has surfaced to remotely connect me with the
crime." He paused, waiting for her response. She deliberately kept her
silence, not wishing to confirm his statement as truth. She might have said
something like "Not yet. You seemed to have done a thorough job of
clean-up," but she held her peace.

"It won't work, Fiona," he continued. "I'll
admit, from what you tell me, that there was some similarity to ... our
episode. I also understand your wanting to avenge yourself. The fact is that
you apparently have no evidence and I won't confess to something I have not
done. I must admit your strategy with Letitia worked, but it won't work with
me. I wasn't there." Again he shook his head. Then he sighed. "The very
nature of my job makes me vulnerable. I was always grateful for your silence,
Fiona. Such a revelation would have killed my appointment to the Court dead in
it's tracks. You could have stepped forward then, Fiona, and floored me. You
didn't, for which I am eternally grateful. You still can harm me, but you could
also harm yourself, which brings us to a stalemate of sorts. Although I have
more to lose than you."

"Still a snob, aren't you, Farley?"

"I'm just being realistic. Equate a Supreme Court
justice with a homicide detective. Where do you come out?"

He was right, of course. To accuse a Supreme Court justice
of a crime of this magnitude without evidence would result in certain
suspension for her. Not necessarily for him, although he would have to ride out
the storm. There were, after all, no witnesses to corroborate her story, which
he would deny. He would accuse her of fantasizing, hellbent on destroying him
for some yet-to-be-concocted political reason.

"If you did it, I'll find out, Farley. I'll connect
you."

Lipscomb shook his head.

"These things can become an obsession, Fiona. Why not
leave well enough alone? What we did is over, over years ago. You're fixated on
it. Let it go. It won't do either of us any good."

For a man accused, even obliquely, he was remarkably calm.
In the lamplit room with its muted shadows, he looked a lot younger than he
was. She knew she was doling out bravado. But how could she admit her
frustration? Worse, she was genuinely concerned that Gail and Thomas Herbert,
in their hyper-zealousness, could cook up a case based on circumstantial
evidence and destroy what could be an innocent man.

"Maybe so," she admitted. "But I'm not going
to let it go until I'm sure."

He studied her for a long time.

"I feel very sorry for you, Fiona. Perhaps you haven't
yet come to terms with your own sexuality."

"Are you now practicing psychoanalysis, Farley?"

"If memory serves, your response was ...
fervent." He looked at her intensely, his expression one of rebuke.
"Perhaps you need to learn a new lesson."

His voice recalled the old memory, troubling now because
she reacted to it, as she had then. It was incredible, the idea of it. Despite
his protestations, she saw, he was still into it.

"I don't need any lessons from you."

"Yes you do, you bitch."

She stood up suddenly.

"What are you trying to do, Farley?"

"You filthy slut," he said, getting up from his
chair and moving toward her. She remained seated as he came toward her, unable
to act, mesmerized by his oncoming form.

He stood over her, fists clenched, his face somber, stern.
Grabbing her by the arm, he lifted her roughly from the sofa. She felt her
heartbeat pounding in her ribcage, ribbons of perspiration rolling down her
back. His face was close to hers, their eyes met.

"You're going to get exactly what you deserve for
doing this to me."

Then suddenly his arm reached back and he slapped her hard
across the face. Her head swung in the direction of the slap and he slapped her
again in the opposite direction. She felt helpless, paralyzed with humiliation.

"You like that, don't you, you cunt," he shouted,
striking her again with the back of his hand.

She stepped back to avoid his blows, struck suddenly by the
grossness of the idea. He was trying to bring her back to the old game and, for
a moment, a brief moment, she had been disoriented. Now her head cleared and
she reached into the pocket of her robe where she had put the .38. Drawing it
out, she pointed it directly at his face.

"I wouldn't, Farley. You cannot imagine how much
pleasure it would give me to blow your head away."

He stepped backward. She could see the fear in his eyes.

"Alright," he said, his hands in front of him,
palms up. "Just calm down."

"I'm very calm. All I'm looking for is an opportunity
to pull this trigger."

"You've got it wrong, Fiona."

"You know I don't."

He kept his hands up and stepped a few steps backward.

"May I leave now?" he said, clearing his throat.

"You mean you're willing to deprive me of the
pleasure."

He did not reply, walking slowly past her, watching the
barrel of the .38.

"I'm going now," he said, clearing his throat.

"I'll be seeing you. Soon."

He let himself out of the door and closed it quietly,
moving soundlessly through the darkness to wherever he had parked his car.

Slowly, she put down the gun and dropped it into the pocket
of her robe. The interview with Farley had planted a seed in her mind and, as
she moved up the staircase to her room, she felt it begin to germinate.

With her mind churning, she looked at the rumpled bed with
distaste. The idea of lying there in the darkness, unable to quiet her
thoughts, filled her with anxiety. She paced the room, trying to understand the
events of the evening, especially the vulnerability she experienced when Farley
suddenly snapped on the ritual language of the bondage-and-discipline
theatrical script.

The response it had triggered in her was frightening. She
had thought that she had left all that behind years ago. The idea of it sapped
her resolve, made her feel further disoriented, raising questions of
confidence.

This was definitely not the way a homicide detective was
supposed to react. There had to be dispassion, objectivity, an emotional
neutrality. Personal involvement could be counterproductive, bias the
investigation, skewer judgment. Perhaps, in the final analysis, she was not cut
out for this type of work. The intrusion of such a negative thought seemed to
shake the foundations of her life. A massive depression seemed on the way.

Then, suddenly, a telephone's signal shuddered into the
jumble of her thoughts. As a reflex she noted that the digital clock registered
a few minutes after midnight. It was Gail Prentiss.

"I'm sorry Fiona. I had to call."

"It's okay, Gail, comes with the territory."

"I just got home from Dad. It was on my fax."

"What was?"

"We got our match, Fiona. We put Phelps Barker in
Phyla's room."

The pleasantness of the surroundings belied the seriousness
of the events. From Thomas Herbert's suite, the sun streamed brightly through
the undraped windows, which framed the White House. Beyond could be seen the
Jefferson Memorial and the Washington Monument. Picture-postcard Washington,
Fiona thought, wedding-cake perfect.

But when her gaze drifted from the view to Thomas Herbert's
somber face and Gail Prentiss's dark intense expression, the pleasantness disintegrated.

"It's enough to bring him in for questioning, but not
enough to hold him," Fiona said. For the past half-hour she was saying the
same thing in different ways and Thomas Herbert was growing increasingly angry.

"He was there. He lied. He's undoubtedly guilty,"
Thomas Herbert said. He, too, had been saying the same thing repeatedly.
"He needs to be sweated, skillfully interrogated."

"He will be," Fiona said.

"I want Officer Prentiss to do the questioning."

Fiona and Gail exchanged glances.

"Sergeant FitzGerald is very experienced, Mr.
Herbert," Gail said.

Herbert must have realized he had put Gail in an awkward
position and grunted something about commitment.

"We don't presume guilt, Mr. Herbert," Fiona
said.

"I know my constitution, Sergeant. But the police have
another agenda, to bring forward a convincing case. The man is clearly
guilty."

"If he is, we'll make the case, Mr. Herbert,"
Fiona said, holding back her anger. In the face of this hard evidence, her own
private theory was certainly under attack. Nevertheless, last night's
confrontation with Farley Lipscomb had given it some additional credibility.

"No 'ifs,' FitzGerald. This man is a menace. He cannot
be allowed to walk the streets preying on other young women."

It was the painful cry of every relative whose loved one
has been the victim of a terrible crime. In emotional shorthand, it meant
vengeance and Thomas Herbert was no shrinking violet in that respect.

"I want him put away forever."

"I can't blame you," Fiona said. "If he's
guilty."

"That 'if' again," Herbert said angrily.

"We'll do our best, Mr. Herbert," Gail said. Her
tone seemed to mollify him.

Herbert looked at his watch, then picked up the phone and
punched in a number.

"This is Herbert." He listened as someone talked
at the other end. "As soon as possible, you hear?"

He hung up, then glared at Fiona.

"You bungle this, there'll be hell to pay," he
sneered. Fiona could understand his pain and her responses were as gentle as
she could make them.

"We won't, Mr. Herbert," Fiona replied, trying to
muster enthusiasm, but there must have been still something in her response
that troubled him.

He glanced toward Gail, an obviously committed ally. She
lowered her eyes. Fiona suspected that they had had extensive conversations on
the subject.

The telephone rang suddenly. Herbert answered it.

"Send him up," he growled.

Fiona looked at Gail, who did not return her gaze, which
seemed curious until the Eggplant strode into the room

"Good of you to come, Captain," Herbert said. The
Eggplant nodded, looking uncomfortable as he sat down. They were grouped around
the table. Herbert had provided coffee and Danish, which the Eggplant refused.
Fiona knew him well enough to see that he was fuming underneath. Obviously,
Herbert had leaned on him through his superiors. Fiona also knew that the fact
that he had answered the summons made him seem subservient, a perception that
infuriated him.

"We were discussing Phelps Barker," Herbert said.
"His fingerprints prove conclusively that he was in that room the evening
of my daughter's murder."

Herbert was, of course, technically incorrect, but the
Eggplant held his peace. Fiona could tell it was not easy for him. Herbert's
attitude was overbearing, superior, a master and servant thing, which the
Eggplant's ego could not abide under any circumstances. She admired his
discipline.

"Add to that his sexual history. I had to intervene on
a rape accusation, which cost Mr. Barker's family a considerable sum."

"Yes," the Eggplant said. "I've been filled
in on that."

"There will be more," Herbert said. "I have
a private investigation ongoing in Illinois."

"I'm aware of that as well," the Eggplant said.

"We'll have the bastard dead to rights," Herbert
said.

"Circumstantially," Fiona said, more as a reflex.
She had not intended any comment. The Eggplant scowled at her, obviously
wishing that she would keep her mouth shut.

"It would seem," Herbert said with unveiled
sarcasm, "that Sergeant FitzGerald is less than enthusiastic about the
course this case has taken." He turned to Fiona. "I think she is more
inclined to believe that this man is innocent of the crime committed against my
daughter."

"Please, Mr. Herbert, Sergeant FitzGerald is an
experienced homicide detective with an outstanding record. Our people are
instructed to doubt until they arrive at critical-mass evidence."

The Eggplant's remarks seemed to stoke Herbert's anger. He
shot a glance to Gail.

"What do you think, Officer Prentiss? Or are you
intimidated by your superior's statement?"

"I do not intimidate my people," the Eggplant
snapped. Herbert was getting under his skin. The fact was that the Eggplant
could be characterized as a master at intimidation, especially suspects,
although occasionally underlings. It was, the staff knew, more bluff and noise
than meanness. Mostly, they made excuses for this flaw in his management style.

Herbert's attitude triggered Fiona's police-bonding
mechanism and her temper.

"Besides," Fiona said angrily, directing her
remarks to Herbert, "we don't intimidate easily, whatever the source."

"I think we're getting offtrack," Gail said in an
effort to defuse the situation.

"Way off," the Eggplant mumbled.

"We have Barker in the room, Chief," Gail said.
"Under the surface, he's fragile. If he's our man, I feel certain that we
can crack him."

"I'm sure we can, Officer Prentiss," the Eggplant
said with surprising calm. It amazed Fiona how Gail Prentiss commanded respect
from everyone around her. It was a rare gift, a special talent.

"And your view, Sergeant FitzGerald?" Herbert
asked. He was back on that.

"It is clear that Barker lied when he denied being in
Phyla's room. But..."

"There it is," Herbert exploded. "The
but
.
He was there, woman. He forced her into this disgusting situation, raped her
and killed her."

Fiona started to speak, but the Eggplant silenced her with
a glance.

"There is no evidence of rape in the conventional
sense," the Eggplant said. "And our pathologist says that she died of
natural causes."

"Then the conventional sense is wrong, Captain. I know
my daughter. She was exemplary in her conduct."

Herbert hesitated, on the verge of breaking down, trying
valiantly to hold himself together.

Dr. Benson had reported in passing that the girl was
apparently very experienced sexually, definitely not a virgin. A quick exchange
of eye contact with the Eggplant told her to leave that one alone.

"She was penetrated with savage brutality and..."
Herbert went on, somewhat recovered, although his lips trembled and his eyes
had reddened. Pausing, he took deep breaths to get himself under further
control. "And it is clear that she wouldn't have died if she had not been
subjected to this ... this degrading infamy."

"I understand," the Eggplant began.

"No, you don't," Herbert interrupted.

"We will do our best to ascertain the truth," the
Eggplant began again, keeping his voice modulated to a monotone.

Thankfully, he was interrupted by a telephone call.
"Yes, it's on," Herbert said to the voice on the phone.
"Good."

He hung up. As soon as he did so, a different kind of ring,
indicative of a fax, began in the bedroom.

"I've asked my investigative team to come up with a
preliminary report on Barker. It's coming through now. I can tell you that I've
spared no expense. I already know some of what is coming. It is not a pretty
picture."

He got up and went into the bedroom. As soon as he was
gone, the Eggplant spoke.

"We bring him in for questioning as soon as we leave
here," he said.

"He's at his office," Gail said. "I've
already checked."

"And be careful," the Eggplant warned. "By
the book."

"Of course," Fiona said. She hoped that she did
not show any negativity. Barker had to be interrogated. There were also
questions that had to be asked of Herbert, questions pertaining to his and his
daughter's relationship with Farley Lipscomb. Somehow, she had to manage it
without causing an explosion.

"Remember," the Eggplant said, lowering his
voice, speaking quickly, "this has all the earmarks of a consensual
beginning that got out of hand. Herbert wants nothing short of an indictment
for murder. He can give us a fit." A nerve began to palpitate in the
Eggplant's jaw. "He's already giving me a fit. He has powerful
friends."

Herbert came back into the room, looking over a sheaf of
faxed papers.

"He's our man. No question about it," Herbert
muttered. "Listen to this. At Harvard he was reprimanded for participating
in a drunken orgy in his fraternity house in which one woman insisted she was
gang-banged by a group of men. Unfortunately, she was drunk herself at the time
and later retracted her earlier testimony. Two women who dated him during his
college days said he was too aggressive sexually for their tastes, although
they did not accuse him of rape. The same is true of a woman he dated at
Georgetown. In fact, there is a club of ladies who give him bad marks in that department,
although they asked that their names not be used. Oh, and here's
something." He paused to read the text. "While at Georgetown, a woman
was treated for contusions about the face and breasts. She was living with
Barker at the time, although she did not attribute the beating to him,
preferring to say it happened at the hands of a burglar. Now, really. What we
have here is a picture of a man who equates violence with sex."

"May I see that, Mr. Herbert?" Fiona asked.

Herbert handed over the papers and Fiona began to read. As
she was doing so, the Eggplant rose.

"We'll be bringing him in for questioning as soon as
Detectives FitzGerald and Prentiss get to him. I'm sure your investigation will
be extremely helpful, Mr. Herbert."

"It's continuing, Captain. This is only a preliminary
report."

"I want to assure you of our complete
cooperation," the Eggplant said. "If Barker is the perpetrator, I
promise you, he will be charged."

"No 'ifs,' Captain," Herbert said. "He is
our man."

After the Eggplant left, Fiona finished reading the papers
and handed them to Gail. Herbert's interpretation was remarkably accurate.
According to the report, there was no question that Phelps Barker had an
aggression problem when it came to women. Certainly, the evidence of his potential
guilt was piling up. More than ever she needed to talk with Herbert privately.
Unfortunately, now was not the time.

"This should be very helpful, Mr. Herbert," Fiona
said. "Very."

"Are you willing to commit yourself to the idea with a
bit more fervor, Sergeant?"

Fiona nodded. There was no sense showing less than full
enthusiasm. She needed to reassure him, gain his confidence for what she must
ask him.

"I'm very encouraged, Mr. Herbert," Gail said.
"He'll never know what hit him."

When Barker was hit, he did, indeed, know it.

At his request, they had picked him up on the corner of
Fourteenth and Constitution, a few blocks from the Justice Department. More
routine questioning, he had been told, a follow-up to their earlier interviews.
They gave him his option as to the site of this additional questioning. He said
he preferred that it be held outside of the Justice Department.

Fiona suspected that Thomas Herbert had also put in his oar
at Justice. If he had, Fiona considered such an action a travesty. Unlike the
first few days of the investigation, where she had, in a sense, abdicated her
seniority, she took charge this time. If Gail was miffed, she said nothing.

Fiona had made the call to Barker. She asked if he wanted a
lawyer present. He declined, pointing out that he was innocent and did not see
the need to escalate the situation.

Although Barker didn't ask, Fiona assured him that
everything would be handled in confidence. His principal fear, it seemed, was
of the media. This indicated to Fiona that he might be relying on his innocence
to protect him, a reassuring reaction in terms of Fiona's hypothesis. He also
seemed reassured that it was FitzGerald, not Prentiss, making the call.

They brought him into a private room off the squad room. He
wasn't exactly happy about the choice of venue, but he seemed willing to endure
it. He had also shed his earlier pose of fraternity-boy arrogance.

Entering the room, he took off his blue blazer and hung it
on the back of a chair, then sat down at a battered table, opposite Fiona and
Gail. He folded his hands, waiting for their questions.

Fiona found the atmosphere both disturbing and ironic. Gail
had acknowledged that she thought he was guilty. Fiona was still unconvinced,
her antennae still probing in the direction of Farley Lipscomb. Both were
operating at the nether ends of competing agendas.

"We want to give you every opportunity to be
straightforward, Mr. Barker," Fiona began. "All we ask is for your
complete candor and honesty. On our part, we intend to be scrupulously fair. Do
you understand?"

Gail Prentiss sat beside her, saying nothing, deferring to
Fiona, who had no illusions about Gail's real role. She was Herbert's monitor.