9

"Romantic Beantown," Greg said in his silky close-to-speaker voice with its blatant tease. She knew from the tone that he had accepted her offer, meaning that somehow his parental calendar was clear. His deal with his estranged spouse was that he took the kids every other weekend. Fiona kept track of that, although occasionally they happened out of sequence. Like now. It was, she was certain, a clear signal from that place where fate was concocted.

The childless weekends had belonged to Fiona when she was not working and there were occasional midweek times when the need arose and time permitted, the latter far more frequent than the former. In the new safe sex environment, one-steady was almost a health imperative. She hoped that he was fulfilling his part of the unspoken bargain, although she secretly suspected that he was pursuing a long-term closet "office quickie" relationship with his married secretary, a very frequent Washington arrangement.

She had almost wished he had refused and she was fully prepared to accept it as a message from on high that this, like the Harper's Ferry debacle, was another deliberate squelch of her secret agenda.

"I'd love it, Fi," Greg said, underscoring this whim of fate. She had little doubt now that the window of opportunity remained open.

"You understand that I'll be working. I've got to see people in South Boston on the McGuire case. Means you'll have to fare for yourself part of the time."

"Good. I'll need it for R and R."

A quick scramble of sexy imagery in her mind made her cheeks hot and stimulated other familiar reactions. She laughed nervously.

"Hope so," she said saucily, knowing that the die was cast. No turning back, she vowed. As backup for her resolve, she would leave her diaphragm home. Burn her bridges. This is commitment time, baby, she told herself. She had even checked the calendar. Fertility was still in season, she noted. Was this fate smiling? It frightened her.

"Okay, Fi, you're penciled in."

"Ink it, pal. You've got a date with destiny."

"Heavy," he said, his voice whispering now. "I feel this rising sensation."

"Take a cold shower."

Nearly a week had gone by since Mrs. McGuire had died and, already, she and Cates had reached the first level of frustration. Flanagan's sweep of her apartment had uncovered nothing that was useful. A fistful of smudged prints. The maid had apparently done a thorough cleaning and polishing on the day before her death and the only other clear fresh prints besides Mrs. McGuire's and the maid's were Harlan Foy's.

This meant that either the killer, if there was one, had been thorough in wiping off his own prints or that Mrs. McGuire did not ordinarily have many people up to her apartment. To complicate matters further, the only prints on the wine bottle in the refrigerator were those of the congresswoman herself. Notwithstanding that, the Eggplant stuck to his guns.

"Means that the killer was one clever bastard. Those prints were put there after the lady had croaked."

"Comes under the heading of making the facts fit the theory," Fiona argued.

"Keeps the ball rolling," the Eggplant said smiling. He had taken a big drag on his panatela and blew a perfect smoke ring across the room. The media had kept the case alive, although his reported assessments were still noncommittal and extremely cautious.

"We're not ready to say either way," he had been quoted in the Washington Post. "We are exploring every promising lead. We want to be absolutely certain before we commit." Talk about vagaries.

"Foy is another cipher," Cates had volunteered. Like Fiona, he was reacting primarily to the Eggplant's instincts in direct contrast to his own. "Mrs. Carter implied that the man was gay. Nothing we can find confirms that. On the other hand, we don't find any evidence of heterosexuality."

"May mean that the man's a neuter," Fiona added. "A not uncommon condition in this town." The political cauldron, she had discovered, could also have a numbing effect on sexuality. Hard work, long hours and a high anxiety level could wreak havoc with a man's libido. On occasion she had encountered this darker side, a message that was not lost on the two males in the room.

"We bow to your greater knowledge, sergeant," the Eggplant said. To his credit, his face was expressionless. In the interests of professionalism, she let it pass.

"Clearly, it's an optional conclusion," Cates said with a touch of pedantry.

Fiona and Cates had interviewed everyone on the congresswoman's staff. Frankie was, by all accounts, pretty well insulated by Foy, who was the staff Mother Hen. He hired and fired, barked out the orders and took on all of the burdens of administration. This left the congresswoman free for the upfront chores, showing the flag, communicating with constituents and colleagues, plying the ideological vineyard and generally pressing the flesh. The staff loved her, tolerated him, which was only natural, but none of them, male or female, could offer any solid proof of the man's sexuality. They offered opinions, of course. But when pressed they retreated.

This was true also when they questioned his neighbors in the apartment house where he lived on Capitol Hill. Suppositions galore. But no hard evidence. The man kept to himself. Never partied. Had no apparent close friends of either sex.

"As far as we could find out, his life was his work and his work was Frankie McGuire," Fiona said.

"Gotta be careful on these things. These repressive sex types can pop their corks with nasty results."

Restating the homicide axiom constituted a subtle rebuke which she resented and she could not restrain a cutting response.

"A poisoning does not represent a popping cork. A poisoner plans."

"A textbook conclusion," the Eggplant said, his eyes drifting to the ceiling to emphasize deep contemplation and illustrating his superiority. She capped a rising anger and forced herself to wait for him to speak again. Cates tapped graceful brown fingers on his thigh, keeping his own impatience bridled.

"All right then. Try this on for size," the Eggplant said still looking at the ceiling. "Foy, the devoted retainer, is also the secret lover."

She shook her head as if she had just swallowed something very sour.

"There's someone for everyone, FitzGerald. How many impossible combinations have you seen in your lifetime? The point is that they had easy access to each other. Perfect cover. Who could suspect? Then suddenly. Accident of accidents. The lady, who believed she was over the hill in terms of making babies, suddenly finds herself pregnant. A dilemma for her? Fucking A."

"The point is, what's the dilemma for him?"

"Maybe he wants to marry the lady. Maybe he doesn't want her to pass the kid off as her husband's. Maybe he wants to assert himself in some way."

"When she balks, he ices her?" Fiona said.

"Or some combination thereof."

"It's reaching," Cates said.

"That's what we're here for," the Eggplant said, crushing the butt of his still lit panatela into an ashtray on his desk, already piled high with dead butts. "Keep reaching."

"No worse than Mrs. Carter's hit man theory," Fiona said.

"Can't be discounted," the Eggplant persisted, as he sucked in the smoke from a new panatela. "Lots of crazies would kill for a cause. And this one generates lots of heat."

"All right," Cates said. "It's a theoretical motive." Fiona could tell he was getting antsy. "The point is ... there are no clues. Nothing."

"Makes it a challenge," the Eggplant said.

"At this point, I vote suicide," Cates said, cutting a glance at Fiona. The eggplant's position baffled her. Yet she was not ready to discount his instincts. Not quite yet.

"The fact is," Fiona said, "your Foy theory notwithstanding, we couldn't scare up a breath of scandal. Not in Washington, anyway. And the Boston crowd are starting to duck us."

The "second thoughts" syndrome was a common affliction, especially if the questions hinted a potential murder case. Involvement, in general, frightened people. In a case where political ramifications were rampant, like this one, all of the principal players were running for cover. Even the voluble May Carter had become aloof, nonaccessible. The same was true for Frankie's husband. She had managed to talk briefly with Jack Grady, but as soon as the subject was broached, he begged off. A telephonic interrogation was easy to evade.

Even Harlan Foy, the Eggplant's "prime" suspect was now less than forthcoming. But he was, at least, a resident and could, if necessary, be legally coerced. They had not told him about Frankie's pregnancy. Not yet. It was too delicate a point, too much grist for the media mill in a town that leaked like a sieve. Even the Eggplant would hang back on that one until he was certain he had a credible hook.

"Maybe if we were to take a stab at them on their own turf," the Eggplant said. He lifted his hand and rocked it, meaning sneak up on them. Enter by the back door. "You know what I mean. Low key. Nothing to shake the trees."

"Rather be safe than sorry," Fiona said.

"Something like that." The Eggplant muttered. His panatela had gone out. "Budget'll only handle one." He studied their faces. Fiona and Cates had exchanged glances. Occasionally they would allude to their personal lives, but it was the kind of relationship where revelation stopped at the door, although each acknowledged a kind of psychological intimacy.

"You go," Cates said, turning away quickly, as if he had received some message from her eyes.

"Worth a try," Fiona said, hiding her elation. Again fate was beckoning, she thought. A regular Pied Piper, proving once again that there were, after all, no accidents.