26

"Leaching," Cates said. It was his first word of response, except for a muffled greeting. He looked brooding and introspective when she first spotted him sitting at a back booth at Sherry's. Nor had he brightened when she came forward and slid into the booth facing him.

"That's it," she said. "All this angst for leaching."

"It's an industrial process." He caught Sherry's eye and she waddled from around the counter to pour them two cups of coffee, offering no greeting. Surliness was her trademark. But she did know cops, could read their faces and body language and had often proved her loyalty by generosity.

"You know leaching?" Fiona asked Sherry.

"Yeah. Pain in the ass deadbeats," she snapped, not cracking a smile, parading her outward pose of nastiness as she waddled back behind the counter.

"It's a process used in gold mining," Cates said, taking a sip of coffee and watching Fiona's face.

"Metallurgy. You called me in the chief's office for metallurgy?"

Part of the game, she knew. He was deliberately drawing it out, requiring such a put-down comment, warming up the information, setting the stage, preparing her. Instinctively, she knew he was getting ready to throw a bomb.

"I think I was wrong," he said. "From the beginning. Dead wrong."

She felt the heartbeat in her throat. You can't, she thought.

"Call it an accidental discovery. The unexplainable meant to be."

"Will you cut the horseshit, Cates," Fiona hissed.

"I was just sitting there," he said ignoring her comment. "In Rome's outer office. Waiting to see this fellow who could explain the mysteries of abortion politics. Maybe, as you said, we were missing something. Keep an open mind. The slogan of Fiona FitzGerald. Always an open mind. Did you know that in Congress, the abortion battle lines are drawn around funding abortions for poor kids."

"Next thing you'll start reading me Roe v. Wade, Cates, for crying out loud."

"I was just sitting there shooting the breeze with this cute little black receptionist..."

He never shoots the breeze, Fiona thought. Nothing he does is without purpose. She did not interrupt.

"You know chitchat. She started to give me opinions about her boss."

"Rome?"

"She worshipped him. Thought he was real cool. He has a truly gung-ho staff." He shook his head and smiled. "It's her they can't stand."

"Mrs. Rome?"

"Herself."

"What can't they stand?"

"Calls ten, twenty times a day. One of these real possessive ladies. Gets mad when this kid says the congressman is out. 'Well, find him.' Kid's a real mimic."

"Does she call mornings?"

"Mostly." He looked puzzled. "How did you know that?"

"Just tell it, for chrissakes," Fiona said curtly.

"Well, this Rome lady, according to the receptionist is apparently real rude. The kid comes in at seven-thirty. When she first came to work for Rome about two years ago, Rome was always in the office ahead of her. Real early bird. That stopped about a year ago. He started to stroll in about nine, nine-thirty. By then, Mrs. Rome had called six or seven times, getting nastier and nastier."

"Then it began again," Fiona said. "Rome coming in early. Say about right after Frankie died."

"On the money. You're a clairvoyant, Fi." He looked at her with mock suspicion, cocking his head. "Now when Mrs. Rome called the receptionist could put her right through. No more lip from Madame Nasty. Not in the mornings, anyway." He looked at her and his eyes narrowed. "How did you know that?"

"That confirms it." Fiona said suddenly elated. "Mornings he spent with Frankie. After her death he was back on schedule."

"I was heading in that direction," Cates said, genuinely surprised. "But you said confirmed. That implies a lot more than theory."

"I did better than that. I got a confession. Heart to heart. Person to person." She lowered her voice. "The man emptied himself, poured it out."

"Rome?"

She remembered her earlier discussion with the Eggplant. We don't give word without authorization from on high. She nodded.

"You're kidding. He went that far?"

"As far as you can go," she said.

"Official. In writing."

"Wasn't necessary."

"He turn himself in?" Cates asked. He was acting oddly, stunned.

"Why would he do that?"

"I thought you said he confessed."

"He did. He was her lover. They met mornings. I think you've just confirmed it. I hadn't checked that part, you see. It did worry me a little. But now you've settled that point." Something continued to nag her. Rome had told her that Barbara did not know, had never found out. How had he put it? He was "thankful" that Barbara had never given him grounds for suspicion. Thank God for that, he had said. According to him that was the part that had troubled him most. It wasn't only his career. It would hurt Barbara. Why punish Barbara? he had said. The conversation with Rome only a few hours ago was recycling at high speed.

"So Barbara Rome was indeed suspicious," Fiona said.

"I still don't understand," Cates replied, obviously confused. "You said, 'confessed.'"

"To being her lover, yes."

"We're talking murder here," Cates said. "Did he confess that?"

"Afraid not," Fiona said. "But you just put a whole new complexion on the case. You implied that Mrs. Rome suspected that Mr. Rome was catting around." She waved her hand suddenly like a traffic cop stopping traffic. "Did the girl, the receptionist, say anything else about Mrs. Rome's morning calls?"

"Only that during that period, when Rome was coming in late, the calls had gotten progressively persistent and rude."

"That had to mean that she didn't know," Fiona said, somewhat relieved. "If she knew she would have rushed downstairs to Frankie's apartment with a rolling pin. You had me going for a moment, pal. We've just declared the matter suicide. The Eggplant and I. Before a witness, no less. May Carter." She paused. "And tomorrow we give him the paperwork to present to hizzoner."

"Some partner," Cates said. "Least you could have done was consulted me."

"I had no choice. She was threatening to go to the media with her cockamamie theory about a hit man. I needed to unload her wagons. Besides, you were suicide's number one fan. From the go." She felt her venom rising. She needed support from him, not opposition. "You should be happy to end the damned thing. Stop spinning our wheels. Get off the political trolley. I can tell you one thing. The old Eggplant was relieved."

Cates watched her over his coffee cup. He had taken another deep sip, but instead of replacing the cup in his saucer, he held it, looking skeptical.

"Well she could have committed suicide," Fiona pressed, her anxiety level rising. "She was in a triple bind emotionally. She couldn't have an abortion. Her husband wanted to marry his pregnant mistress and her own lover wouldn't marry her. Political dynamite. She saw her political career heading down the tube, her personal life exploding. She was a woman on the edge with one way out."

God, Fiona thought, was she trying to convince herself? She felt hyper and surely sounded it. Finally, after he had apparently concluded that she had wound down her story, he slowly put the cup back in the saucer.

"The kid was moaning about the rudeness of this rich bitch," he said, "wishing that she would stay away longer than overnight when she goes to Nevada."

"A gambler?"

"Hell, no. I was telling you about leaching, remember."

"Okay, Cates. Time for a straight line. What the fuck is leaching?"

"It's a process of separating gold."

"You said this was something important. I didn't come here for a metallurgy lesson." She sensed that his bomb was coming at last and that there was no place to hide.

"Cyanide is a key ingredient of the leaching process."

"For chrissakes, Cates," Fiona cried.

His nostrils quivered as he drew in a deep breath.

"The rich bitch inherited a gold mine in Nevada. Ergo, she knew how and where to get the cyanide," Cates said, his eyes glowing like hot coals.

"Talk about circumstantial," she snapped. She felt her shaky conviction begin to crumble.