The Ties That Bind (9 page)

"I understand, Mr. Herbert. But you've got to
realize..."

"That these things take time, right? Well, here are
the questions I'm asking and you know I've got the right and the clout to do
so..."

The Eggplant nodded. He was showing amazing patience.

"The first question is"—he glanced toward
Fiona—"are we giving this a full-court press?"

"Of course," the Eggplant replied with exactly
the right amount of muted indignation. "These detectives are part of a
special team assigned to investigate crimes against women. Our belief
is..."

"I'm sorry, Captain. I don't buy it. Murder has little
to do with gender. I want the best and most experienced. Excellence is the only
criteria that works for me. I don't care about race or gender or religion. Are
they the best?"

The Eggplant turned toward Fiona and Gail.

"For this case, yes. They are the best."

Fiona felt a shiver of emotion. She was proud of him.

"I don't agree. I would like you to reassess their
assignment."

Fighting words, Fiona thought. It was time to throw a
handful of salt on the man's open wound. In her judgment, he had gone too far.

"The chief medical examiner, Dr. Benson," Fiona
began, turning toward Herbert. "His forensic reports shows that the
immediate cause of death was an asthma attack."

Herbert flushed.

"An asthma attack!" he shouted.

Gail looked startled. The Eggplant stiffened in his chair.
Herbert seemed to fulminate with rage.

"You must need a new medical examiner," Herbert
muttered with anger. "I've just seen those pictures. Multiple stab wounds.
Do you people think you can get away with that?"

"According to Dr. Benson, the wounds were administered
after her death, Mr. Herbert," Fiona said calmly.

"I smell either incompetence or cover-up here,"
Herbert sneered, raising his voice. "I can assure you, I won't take this.
I demand another autopsy. Whoever did this one is obviously incompetent,
inexperienced or deliberately malicious. In fact, I will get my own
pathologist. You people are amateur night. This is an investigation of my
daughter's murder. What is going on here? I demand a reevaluation of
this."

He was unhinged and raving and there was no way to calm
him. Nevertheless his accusations demanded a response.

"The medical examiner," Fiona began—she was angry
now and showed it—"a man of irrefutable competence and experience, did the
autopsy himself. He has rarely, if ever, been wrong. If he says that the cause
of death was an asthma attack, you can bank on it."

Her firm defense, while not mollifying the man, made him
hesitate.

"The stab wounds are obviously the perpetrator's
reaction to her sudden death," the Eggplant said, quickly offering his own
interpretation. He, too, must have been shocked by the revelation. "His
action was, it seems to me, an attempt at cover-up ... a deliberate action to
make the crime look like the work of a ... an unbalanced pervert."

"A very convenient explanation, Captain," Herbert
sneered. He seemed to be winding up for another diatribe against the homicide
division. Again Fiona was moved to action.

"Did she suffer from asthma, Mr. Herbert?" Fiona
snapped.

Herbert glared at her.

"I don't agree with this conclusion," he said.

"Did she have a history of asthma?" Fiona
persisted.

"Why don't you ask your wonderful pathologist?"
Herbert sneered. "Besides, if you know the answer, why ask me?"

He was growing exceedingly uncomfortable, fidgeting in his
chair, his hands clasping and unclasping.

"I'm going to have my own pathologist examine her.
Somebody in Chicago that I can trust..." His voice trailed off as if he
needed time to compose himself. "Yes. She was an asthmatic. But she had
just about outgrown it. She had only one attack in the last three years."

"Two attacks, Mr. Herbert," Fiona reminded him.

"Probably brought on by what she was going
through," Gail interjected, breaking her silence, her pity for the man
obviously aroused.

"Either way," Herbert said sarcastically,
"she was obviously raped and murdered..."

Fiona felt moved to reply, but a signal from the Eggplant
silenced her.

"You have a point, Mr. Herbert," the Eggplant
said. He stood up and looked directly at Fiona. "Would you excuse us for a
moment, Mr. Herbert?"

Whatever had been on Herbert's mind seemed to evaporate
with the Eggplant's request. Perhaps Herbert was assuming that the Eggplant was
acting to relieve Fiona of the case. In any event, he acquiesced without
protest.

"Officer Prentiss will stay here with you," the
Eggplant said, nodding to Gail.

In the corridor, the Eggplant moved out of earshot to an
alcove where there was a soda machine. He fished in his pocket for bills and
placed one in the changemaker.

"Coke?"

She shook her head. He watched as the machine rumbled and
offered up its can of Coke. It opened with a hiss and he immediately swallowed
half its contents.

"Don't do it, FitzGerald," he said, wiping his
mouth with the back of his hand.

"Don't do what?" She was genuinely puzzled.

"Tell him your theory."

Which one? she wondered.

"This is not the time to tell him that his daughter
was a willing participant."

"I hadn't intended to," she told him. "I was
merely going to mention that she had not been penetrated, that no semen was
found and that she had been attacked in the anus with an oversized dildo."

"Christ," the Eggplant said, blowing out a deep
gust of breath. "It'll make him crazy. He's already stirred up a storm and
the
Post
has played it up on the front of the Metro section. I've been
fielding media questions all morning." He finished the remainder of the
can, crushed it between strong fingers and threw it into the nearby receptacle.
"I'm getting too old for this," he muttered.

"Maybe that was her sex thing and he knows it,"
Fiona speculated.

"I doubt it. In any event, don't expect him to confirm
it."

"That's why I kept my big mouth shut."

"I'd rather he read the report," the Eggplant
said. "He's already down on Benson's opinion. Let's not stir him up any
more than we've done already."

"He had it coming."

"I don't disagree."

"I know. You feel sorry for the bastard."

The Eggplant looked down at his hands.

"There you go showing me that compassionate streak
again, Chief. Don't worry, I won't blow your image."

The Eggplant shook his head and smiled. Fiona shrugged away
any more sentiment and they started back to the office where Gail and Herbert
were waiting. Before the Eggplant opened the door, he paused and studied
Fiona's face.

"You really believe she was consensual?"

"Yes," she said firmly, convinced by her own
experience, instinct and Benson's findings.

The Eggplant sighed and shook his head.

"He does have the clout to make us dance,
FitzGerald."

"When I saw you come through that door, I made that
assumption."

"I take him at his word. He's going to make a parallel
investigation through his own sources. And he's going to try and get you and
Prentiss off the case."

"If you want, we'll go quietly," Fiona said.

"You've never done anything quietly, FitzGerald. You
think I want a gender discrimination case in my face?"

"Hell, you said in front of witnesses that we were the
best. We'd win hands down."

He chuckled as he pushed open the door.

What struck her immediately was the way in which Herbert
and Gail were positioned. They were still sitting in their respective chairs,
but they had moved closer to each other, their knees almost touching. As a good
judge of body language, Fiona speculated that Gail was in the process of
charming the man, winning his confidence, doing the good-cop waltz.

"I was explaining to Mr. Herbert the theory behind the
Captain's pairing us, the motivation behind the arrangement."

"Officer Prentiss has, at least, put it in
perspective," Herbert said grudgingly. He gave Gail a benign kindly nod.
He turned to look at Fiona. "She gave me a little background on you as
well, Sergeant. I knew your father when I was a young Assistant U.S.
Attorney."

So that was it, Fiona thought. Gail had used the time for a
bit of name-dropping to a man to whom clout, big names and connections meant
everything. Fiona shot an unseen wink in Gail's direction. She was slowly
putting the pin back in his grenade.

"We were out there arranging for you to have a copy of
the autopsy report, Mr. Herbert," the Eggplant said. He, too, was
apparently relieved by the environmental change.

"I still intend to enhance this investigation."

"And don't think we aren't appreciative," the
Eggplant said. "We need all the help we can get. Believe me, Mr. Herbert,
we're determined to find this monster."

"We'll keep you totally informed," Gail said,
determining that she had gotten permission to embellish the point. "And
we'll cooperate with you and anyone of your choice."

Herbert seemed afflicted with a sudden attack of
exhaustion. He was done in, spent. Fiona suspected that he was the kind of man
who would devote himself body and soul to bring his daughter's assailant to
justice. It was easy to see that his daughter was everything to him. Her death
had kicked the props of his life out from under him. Finding the person who had
done this to his daughter would now take over his life. It was, Fiona
suspected, his way of coping with grief.

For the moment, the fight was out of him. He was facing the
reality of what must be done in the next few days, the trip back home, the
arrangements, the funeral, the reality of loss. They set up a time and place to
meet three days hence.

"I'm sure by then we'll have something to sink our
teeth into, Mr. Herbert," the Eggplant said.

Herbert grunted acknowledgment. But it was to Gail, just as
he left the office, that he directed his most cogent remark.

"You cannot believe how much she meant to me," he
said. His eyes moistened. Grief took charge of him. He left the room and closed
the door quietly behind him.

Phelps Barker was preppy down to his socks, which were
yellow with a pattern that struck Fiona as something she had seen on fraternity
theme ties. He also wore red suspenders and a striped tie on a buttoned-down
oxford blue shirt of the kind purveyed by Brooks Brothers for wannabe men
seeking power and influence. He was as transparent as unpolluted air.

With jet black hair, perfectly parted, a straight nose and
strong clefted chin, he wore his assured future with an arrogant smirk.

A perennial fraternity boy, Fiona decided, an eager
participant at chug-a-lug and a heavy advertiser of his sexual exploits, mostly
exaggerated. Her own memories of fraternity boys were of beer-smelling breath
and premature ejaculations.

They were sitting in the leather-and-walnut atmosphere of
the Federal Club, which had been Barker's choice for their meeting. Perhaps the
buttoned-down golden boy wanted to lavish a bit of intimidation on the
blue-collar wage earners. This was the attitude Fiona brought into the club.
She was not in a good mood.

After waving them to their seats, Barker snapped his
fingers at a liveried waiter, who reacted swiftly to the signal.

"They make lovely whiskey sours here, don't they,
Walter?"

"For the ladies?" Walter asked.

"Coffee would be fine," Fiona said.

"Same for me," Gail said.

"And one whiskey sour for Mr. Barker."

"You got it Walter."

Walter scurried off.

They had spent the day retracing Phyla's steps in the hours
before her death, interviewing the people noted in her date book.

Both the female lawyers at Energy and Interior had similar
reactions to the young woman. Phyla was bright, charming and self-confident and
both woman had, independently, come to the conclusion that Phyla was
interviewing them, not the other way around.

"Everything came down from the top," Chelsea
Adams said. In her mid-thirties, blonde and freckled, with green eyes and acne
covered by makeup, she was with the enforcement division of the Energy
Department. Fiona pegged her as a once wide-eyed do-gooder who had come to this
place to clean up the planet only to find little interest in serving that cause
among the bureaucrats who ran the agency.

"I'm not saying she wasn't qualified. She had it all,
great marks, personality, all the right credentials. Above all, she had juice.
We had the impression we had to receive her like royalty."

Of course, Chelsea Adams was resentful. She was Brooklyn
Law School. She needed the job. Once she had cared. Now she was a cynic,
although there was a visible reservoir of decency and compassion.

"Did I like her? Yes, I liked her. Was she qualified?
Yes, she was qualified. In the end, I think she spotted both the futility of
trying to make a name in this place and the fact that this is not the best
career stepping-stone in town, which is what she was after."

The woman's knowledge about what had happened to Phyla came
from stories in the
Washington Post
, which, thankfully, were hardly as
complete or as graphic as the real truth. The paper had said that Phyla had
been trussed and stabbed numberous times by a sadistic pervert. It did not
mention the trauma of the dildo.

"Since I read the story, I haven't been able to sleep.
Wasn't it awful? I hope you get him."

They heard substantially the same story from Jane Braker at
Interior. The clout from the top, the feeling of being interviewed, the sense that
Phyla did not think that Interior, like Energy, was upwardly mobile enough.

"What exactly do you mean by 'clout from the
top'?" Fiona asked.

"I presume the Secretary. That's what my boss got from
his boss."

Fiona let it pass. What she was really hoping for was a
credible link with Farley Lipscomb, a doubtful possibility at best. The clout
from the top obviously came from Phyla's father.

"What kind of a job do you think she was interested
in?"

"Not here. That's for sure."

"Then where?" Fiona had pressed.

The woman shrugged.

"Probably Justice. Maybe tax work. That's where the
big money is, once you serve your time."

"U.S. Attorney's office, maybe?" Gail coaxed.

"Only if she could stay in Washington. She wasn't
interested in the boonies."

"How about the U.S. Supreme Court, clerking for one of
the justices?" Fiona asked, hoping the inquiry was taken as casual.

"Does Famous Amos make chocolate chip cookies? Now
there's a stepping-stone."

Neither of the women lawyers knew Phyla Herbert before
meeting her that day. Both expressed similar views and both would have
recommended her for hiring if she was interested.

Phelps Barker provided a more personal vantage point. He
knew Phyla, as he put it, "forever." They grew up together in
Winnetka. Barker's father was a prominent physician who served the wealthy
clientele of Winnetka, the Herberts included. It was Dr. Barker who attended
Phyla's mother during her terminal illness. Throat cancer, he averred, with a
shrug.

"Too much booze and 'backy," he said, lifting the
whiskey sour that Walter had served and sipping it with delight.

"You don't know what you're missing," he said,
winking.

He was cocky, full of himself, with the kind of flashy,
white-toothed smile most people call "winning." He could not take his
eyes off Gail Prentiss, a not uncommon reaction.

"Would you characterize your meeting with her as
business or social?" Fiona asked. Barker tore his gaze from Gail and, with
obvious reluctance, shifted his eyes toward her.

"A little of both. She was a buddy." He shook his
head. "God, I can't believe it. Multiple stab wounds. Was she raped?"

"Why do you ask?"

"It seems a logical question. I mean that's the
obvious conclusion, isn't it?"

He showed some discomfort when Fiona deliberately didn't
answer his question, studying his face.

"Was she interested in a job at Justice?" Gail
asked. Showing relief, he eagerly turned toward her, flashing a smile.

"I can't say for sure. With Mr. Herbert's connections
she could get any job without sweat. Her principal concern was where it could
lead. Smart girl."

"And where does it lead?" Gail asked.

"Why do you think we come here, or haven't you heard?
This is an obligatory hitch for a lawyer on his way up. We're here for
contacts, connections. Government service is strictly a résumé enhancement."

"Did Phyla need that?" Fiona asked.

"Hell no. There was an open door in her father's firm.
Do you happen to know how powerful that firm is? You know how many lawyers they
have?"

"I've heard," Fiona said.

"You think the government is run by the people?"
Barker sneered. "It's run by the big law firms. Wake up, America."

"You sound contemptuous," Fiona said.

"Contemptuous? That's the problem with you people. No
insight. I lust for success, meaning money, maybe power. For that, I'll do
almost anything. The game plan calls for three years max at Justice, then into
the trough."

"Is this what she was after?" Gail asked.

"Who knows? Maybe. She had things to prove to
Daddy."

"And herself," Gail snapped.

"That, too," he acknowledged.

Fiona felt herself deliberately holding back, waiting for
that particular moment when her own questions would have their greatest impact.

"Did she say anything to indicate she wanted a job at
Justice?" Gail asked.

"Actually no," Barker said. "Now that you
mention it."

"Did she give you any idea where she would prefer to
work?" Fiona interjected, seeing her opening.

"Not really."

"She didn't say that she wanted to work in
Washington?" Fiona pressed, looking for the link.

"I don't think she said," Barker said, showing
some surprise at Fiona's pursuit. "Hell, that's why she was here. Wasn't
it? I suppose she had other meetings arranged."

"Did she say with whom?"

"No. But then Phyla is ... was ... very tightly
strung. There was no way inside."

"Did she offer the slightest hint of where she wanted
to work?"

"I can't recall."

Peripherally, Fiona could see Gail register a restless
flash of impatience. She had to be confused by Fiona's oddly meandering and
oblique questions. Nevertheless, she pressed on.

"Any other agency?"

"I told you. She didn't say."

"What about..." Fiona hesitated a moment, an
action she regretted since it gave what she had in mind more importance than
she wished. "What about the Supreme Court?"

"What about it?" Barker said, confused but
curious.

"You know ... a clerkship to one of the
justices?"

Again, she sensed Gail's restlessness.

"You're really pushing, Sarge," Barker said,
exchanging a glance with Gail and taking another sip of his sour.

"Just routine inquiries, Mr. Barker," Fiona said.
"By the way, how do you rate that as an upwardly mobile situation for a
young lawyer fresh out of law school?"

"A clerkship to a justice?"

Fiona nodded and Barker grew thoughtful.

"On a scale or one to ten, I'd give it an
eleven."

"You think she had a chance for that?" Fiona
asked.

"With Daddy's help, probably a damned good
chance."

"Was he close to any of the justices?"

"I don't know, but I wouldn't be surprised."

"She never said?"

Barker shook his head.

"Phyla wouldn't have said. It was a given. Daddy knows
everybody. I'd say she wanted to make it on her own."

"That would be difficult ... I mean, getting a job
working for a justice without Daddy's help?" Fiona pressed, sensing she
was going too far down that path, but unable to stop.

"Oh, she had the stuff. But for a job like that you need
a direct connection."

"Like being buddy-buddy with a justice?"

"Do I have to tell you how the system works?"

He snickered and winked at Gail, who seemed a confused
spectator, watching a game she didn't understand.

"And she herself never mentioned any direct connection
with the Court, with a justice?"

"No. I'd remember." He paused and studied Fiona's
face. "You seem to be working on a single track."

Fiona sensed the need to retreat.

"One track of many, Mr. Barker," Fiona said,
looking at Gail. "Have you any questions?"

Gail grew thoughtful.

"Were they close? Father and daughter?"

"I'll tell you this, I think her old man would blow up
this whole town if it would have helped his daughter. She was everything to
him. He must be shattered."

"He is," Gail said.

"Was he everything to her?" Gail asked. Fiona
caught the personal connotation.

"Who am I to say? He had juice. She had ambition. If
it was my old man, I'd take the juice."

"But it would be a feather in her cap to get a job on
her own, without his help?" Fiona interjected.

"Listen, ladies. Phyla was the kind of person who
could make it on her own, anywhere, anytime. But she knew the value of
connections and was willing to use them."

"Did she tell you that?" Fiona asked.

"Not in words. Hell, the woman stank of ambition.
Sure, she'd like to make it without Daddy. But she knew that Daddy held some
pretty good chips and she was willing to play them."

"Something she said?" Fiona asked.

"Something she showed. She was not a teller. She held
her cards very close to the vest."

Fiona herself was uncertain where all this was leading. She
was trying to bushwhack a path to Farley Lipscomb's door, but no one seemed to
be cooperating. Either that or she was bushwhacking in the wrong direction.
Inadvertently, Gail came to her rescue.

"Was she a sexually active woman?" Gail asked.
Phelps Barker seemed somewhat taken aback. He reached for his drink and upended
the glass. So far he had been more than cooperative, but Fiona could see he did
not take kindly to Gail's question. He became instantly belligerent.

"Are you asking whether or not I balled her?" he
smirked. "Phyla? We were buddies. It would take a leap of faith for me to
see her any other way."

"Are you saying she had no interest in you other than
as a friend?"

"Phyla was Madame Purie," Barker said, taking a
deep sip on his sour. "She did not seem amenable to ... let us say ...
sexual congress."

"Meaning she rebuffed you?" Gail pushed.

"'Rebuff' suggests that I might have made some moves
on her. No way. She sent no messages. I might have entertained something when I
was twelve or thirteen, but any urges, none of which come to mind, would have
been self-squelched. In that department, she was not my type."

"What is your type, Barker?" Gail asked.

He studied her for a moment, then winked.

"I'd say that you present enormous possibilities,
lady."

"So you were buddies," Gail said, ignoring his
remark. Fiona sensed that this was beginning to look like a pointless
interrogation.

"I told you. I grew up with her. We both went our separate
ways after high school. I went to Harvard and Georgetown Law. She went to the
University of Chicago, undergraduate and law school."

"Did she have any boyfriends?" Gail asked.

"You mean the plural?" Barker asked with what
Fiona interpreted as superior, preppy sarcasm.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Fiona snapped,
giving in to a sudden urge to lower the boom on his self-satisfied smugness.

"It means..." He looked Fiona over as if she was
sitting in a hole beneath him. "What was your rank again?"

"Does it matter?" Fiona snapped.

"No," Barker said, after a long deliberate pause
as he stared into her eyes, hoping she would flinch first. She didn't.
"No, it doesn't matter."

"We were asking about her personal life," Gail
said, ignoring the interruption. She was now relentlessly on the man's case. No
doubt she was following her own hunch. Intuition was a homicide detective's
stock in trade, a kind of art form, and Fiona knew better than to inhibit such
vibrations.