27

FRANCES' CALL came early Sunday morning. It seemed so banal a gesture for such a potentially ominous event. Cates had moved into Fiona's house, occupying the room next to the master bedroom, which had been hers when she was growing up. They were connected with an open radio, and there was no way that Fiona could be approached without Cates hearing.

On Friday they had gone to work as usual. Sam had called her early.

In their conversation, the communication between them was less in the words they spoke than in their tone and the pauses between them. The very idea that they were protecting their secret exhilarated her and the sound of his voice was undeniably exciting.

"You have got to be careful," he told her. He had, of course, been informed that Frances had followed her home. Was the message of his concern subject to another, more personal, interpretation? Like he needed her to be careful because he needed her. Dammit, put a lid on that one, she rebuked herself.

Rather than return to headquarters after leaving the hotel, Fiona had chosen to drive home on the theory that, if Frances was to act swiftly, she would hardly make a move in or near police headquarters.

Frances' car stayed at a respectable distance. Cates had pulled in behind her. But when Fiona pulled into her driveway, Frances proceeded past it. Cates had continued to follow her car, which took a series of right turns, then headed back down Wisconsin Avenue to her home in Georgetown.

"She's sniffed the bait and her appetite's up," the eggplant commented after hearing the report.

"Live bait," Fiona replied, like the boy whistling in the cemetery. Am I scared? she asked herself. Bet your ass.

"That extra forty minutes had us concerned," Cates pointed out. Fiona repressed the urge to kick his shins. Did he know? she wondered, searching for a logical explanation.

"We thought it might send a tougher message, prod her to believe that this one was really hot, heavy and serious. It cost me another fifty thou in gin losses." She could not suppress a girlish giggle. Liar, liar, she railed at herself. She took a quick reading of their expressions. Nothing untoward. They were either hiding it or buying it.

She felt no guilt. Nor any sense of violation of professional ethics. Time had to be killed anyway. What better way? Dirty lady, she admonished herself. The fact was that the memory of those moments with Sam, both psychic and physical, still lingered deliciously.

She could not remember a more powerful experience. And yet his history mitigated against his being as moved as her. The reality was that she had been one among many. Not, as she might have fantasized, that special one, the perfect one, the searched-for one. Or, perhaps, the unspoken assumption that this would be the one and only time had forced their passion to a penultimate explosion of feeling. In her heart, she longed for more. It was, she knew, a greedy, selfish, stupid idea, unprofessional and risky. And it led to a malevolent wish ... that Frances would be cautious, string things out, keep the ploy working. Now there was a conflict of interest.

With only limited success, she tried to brush away such thoughts. Next, would she be contemplating the meaning of love? Oh God. Not that.

"Still, she might not act for weeks," the eggplant said. Her heart lurched. Could she handle weeks without slipping over the edge? Edge of what?

"I don't know if the Senator will sit still for that," she had replied.

"Considering the potential downside for him, I doubt it too," the eggplant had pointed out. "He's liable to say, 'Look, I've been a good soldier. I've given my conscience a good ride. Done my duty as an honest citizen. Gimme a break.'"

"I think she'll act fast," Cates interjected. "She's motivated. Nobody unmotivated hangs around hotels. I'd say she's agitated, ready and plotting her move."

"Looks like it," the eggplant said. "Sure you don't need more backup?"

"Either I'm a real target or I'm not," she had managed to say with some authority. "She spots backup, the ballgame is over."

The object had always been to foil her in the act, force her to confess. They were all betting that the confrontation would induce an overwhelming need to tell all. Criminologists were divided on the premise. Human behavior was too complex for slide-rule verisimilitude.

To record such a confession, if it came, they had fit her with a trick brassiere with a mini-tape recorder attached. It was laughable, but practical, Miranda notwithstanding. The woman had to be stopped one way or another.

"Wearing it?" the eggplant asked.

Fiona nodded and the eggplant showed a thin smile.

"No 'talk to my tits' jokes," she warned.

"Would I joke about something so serious?" the eggplant had commented, unable to suppress a broader smile.

Actually such jokes would have lightened the load. It wasn't only the fear of Frances. She had the courage to face that. It was the other that troubled her more, the female trap. Wanting it to be meaningful. There was no solace for it, except to curse her gender.

"I'm going along, but I still don't like it," the eggplant said yet again.

"I'm ready," she told him firmly.

"Talk about macho."

With Cates, she had practiced how to resist a garrote attack from the rear and had polished up her karate. She did not fear a one-on-one physical attack, especially by another female. On the other hand, the woman could use another method, a gun, poison, explosives. Here again, they were betting that the same MO would be used, strangulation by a strong, soft object like a scarf.

Frances' telephone call was a surprise. They had figured on a more surreptitious method, a sneak job. Frances would suddenly appear behind her, flip the garrote around her neck and squeeze. Fiona would overpower her. Cates would come running to her aid. Defeated, the woman would sing her sad song. Finis.

"This is Frances Langford," the voice said after Fiona had identified herself. They had been drinking coffee in the kitchen. Cates had run to the extension in the den.

"Oh yes," Fiona had replied.

"I guess you know who I am?"

"Yes, I do."

"We've met casually," Frances said. For a moment, she seemed tentative, pausing. "We saw each other at the OAS a couple of weeks ago." Her voice was pleasant and chatty. Saw each other indeed, Fiona thought, remembering her face peering above the balustrade.

"We probably did," Fiona said cautiously.

"You know we did."

Now it was Fiona's turn to pause. She was genuinely confused.

"I saw you and Sam. Then you looked up and saw me."

"That was you?" Fiona said, trying to generate surprise, knowing she wasn't convincing.

"I know you must think I'm crazy. I've actually been following Sam and you. I mean, I know where you go."

"Really, Mrs. Langford," Fiona replied, reaching for indignation.

"I have to see you," Frances said. "I just can't wait any longer."

"What for?"

"I don't want to say over the phone. But it's very important. Very."

"When do you suggest?"

"Today. As soon as possible."

"Where?"

"You know the Four Seasons in Georgetown?"

"Yes."

"Noon okay?"

Fiona looked at the digital clock on the microwave.

"I'll be there."

Still, she did not hang up. Fiona could hear her breathing.

"And, Miss FitzGerald."

"Yes."

"Be very careful."

Cates rushed back to the kitchen after the call.

"How do you read this?" he asked.

"Obviously a ploy," Fiona said.

"A public place. Witnesses. She's taking risks she may not have taken with the others. Why?"

Cates shrugged.

"She must know you're a cop."

"I have to assume she knows everything."

They called the eggplant at home and told him what had happened.

"Think she knows we're tailing her? Setting her up?" he asked after they told him about the call.

"No indication," Fiona said crisply. "But we can't be sure. Not yet."

"Sounds weird," the eggplant said.

"Cunning," Fiona corrected. "She has something up her sleeve, that's for sure."

"Cates."

"Yes, Chief."

"Like glue. Understand?"

"Perfectly."

"And you, FitzGerald. Be careful."

He hung up. Funny, Fiona thought. That's what Frances said to me.