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    SENATOR LOVE: A FIONA FITZGERALD MYSTERY
    SENATOR LOVE: A FIONA FITZGERALD MYSTERY
    SENATOR LOVE: A FIONA FITZGERALD MYSTERY
    Ebook287 pages3 hours

    SENATOR LOVE: A FIONA FITZGERALD MYSTERY

    By Warren Adler

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStonehouse Press
    Release dateJan 24, 2017
    ISBN9781532891595
    SENATOR LOVE: A FIONA FITZGERALD MYSTERY
    Author

    Warren Adler

    Acclaimed author, playwright, poet, and essayist Warren Adler is best known for The War of the Roses, his masterpiece fictionalization of a macabre divorce adapted into the BAFTA- and Golden Globe–nominated hit film starring Danny DeVito, Michael Douglas, and Kathleen Turner. Adler has also optioned and sold film rights for a number of his works, including Random Hearts (starring Harrison Ford and Kristin Scott Thomas) and The Sunset Gang (produced by Linda Lavin for PBS’s American Playhouse series starring Jerry Stiller, Uta Hagen, Harold Gould, and Doris Roberts), which garnered Doris Roberts an Emmy nomination for Best Supporting Actress in a Miniseries. His recent stage/film/TV developments include the Broadway adaptation of The War of the Roses, to be produced by Jay and Cindy Gutterman, The War of the Roses: The Children (Grey Eagle Films and Permut Presentations), a feature film adaptation of the sequel to Adler’s iconic divorce story, and Capitol Crimes (Grey Eagle Films and Sennet Entertainment), a television series based on his Fiona Fitzgerald mystery series. For an entire list of developments, news and updates visit www.Greyeaglefilms.com. Adler’s works have been translated into more than 25 languages, including his staged version of The War of the Roses, which has opened to spectacular reviews worldwide. Adler has taught creative writing seminars at New York University, and has lectured on creative writing, film and television adaptation, and electronic publishing.

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      SENATOR LOVE - Warren Adler

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      Chapter 1

      Not Garfield, Fiona Fitzgerald whispered, looking over Monte Pappas’ thick shoulder as they scrutinized the seating list. A sweet-faced young woman with a toothpaste-sincere smile, suitably festooned in the costume of a colonial dame, had handed them the list.

      PepsiCo had pulled out all stops for this annual bash, a celebration and ingratiation for the benefit of Congress and the diplomatic corps. It was a high-profile wingding, a not-so-subtle Thank you for helping or at least not interfering with the spreading of international cheer of feel-good bellywash. Fiona Fitzgerald, influenced by Monte Pappas’ public relations-type cynicism and her own extensive Washington D.C. experience, did not wish to think such spoiling thoughts as Not Garfield. But how could she avoid it?

      PepsiCo had also rented out the hallowed plantation of George Washington’s Mount Vernon and put up a giant tent on a lawn adjacent to the main house. It held more than 350 people and included a five-course gourmet supper served by an army of white-gloved waiters; the tables were set with gleaming china and topped with elaborate floral centerpieces. Each table was designated by a president, their name written in impeccable calligraphy on white board. For whatever reason, although Fiona knew that such things were carefully orchestrated, they had drawn President Garfield’s table.

      There was a ten-piece band, a dance floor in the tent’s center, and a large area set aside for the cocktail hour—a set-piece of Washington devoted to the usual networking, influence hustling, and double-cheeking.

      Some would surely think it defamatory for this national shrine to be invaded by the bellywashers and their freeloading minions, but this—as Pappas had pointed out so during the horse-drawn carriage ride from the Potomac River to the tent—was the age of corporate culture, and thus the bash was an exercise in one-upmanship, and so any thought of defamation was generally lost in the mix. But, hell, it had been a slave plantation in old George’s day. So what was wrong with a bit of vulgar fun?

      They had glided into the Potomac River dock on charter boats, which were then moored on Main Street, which was closer to Capitol Hill. They had taken the slow ride a few miles downriver while a band played festive music and the bartenders merrily poured champagne. The April air was damp with the gamey odor of the awakening earth, and there was more than a hint of an oncoming spring rain.

      For Fiona, a senator’s daughter weaned on the heady yet subtle sweetness of Washington D.C. milk, the event went beyond the usual fanfare, and no amount of cynicism could dampen the sheer wonder and chutzpah of the annual party.

      The rooms of the Mount Vernon mansion, with the exception of the entry foyer, were verboten to partygoers, and so an impressive multitude of gleaming white Port A Pottys were arranged in a picket line adjacent to the main big top. It struck Fiona that in-house johns were not a feature in George Washington’s day and the mansion was historically accurate.

      There were moments, and this was one of them, when she felt somewhat superior to the situation, a trifle more all knowing and cynically cocksure. Monte Pappas, a gun-for-hire on any political campaign that could pay his price, wasn’t shy about catering to Fiona’s attitude. He had, after all, adopted superiority and cynicism as his everyday business pose. Fiona had already penetrated that part of Pappas, and seen his vulnerable sweetness under the façade, which titillated her less platonic instincts.

      So ask me, he had challenged her as they stood on the charter boat watching Washington twinkle past. Why do they come here?

      Pappas had been invited, and Fiona was only his And Guest, so he was entitled to her answer.

      Influence, she said.

      "And ego, he instructed. Never forget ego. For one shining moment the Chairman gets to beat his breast in front of the power elite. The message is: ‘Look at all my marbles, people. See ’em. Count ’em. Respect ’em. I’ll throw some in your game if you are nice. And if you take them, by God, you better be nice to me.’"

      So what else is new? she replied.

      Who’s talking ‘new’? It’s always been this way, Pappas said, his arm enveloping her, squeezing her shoulder lightly. She could feel his breath as he bent over to kiss her ear. Of course, he was being seductive—this was, after all, their second official date, although they had known each other casually on the social circuit for years.

      He was dark, stocky, and well nourished. Even in his fitted tux he looked lumpy; his cummerbund had not been a good idea. But she liked his shifty, street-smart moves, and especially his know-it-all remarks that sometimes passed for wisdom, often cutting, often seemed to cut into the heart of some simple truth.

      The darkness of his beard suggested that his soft body was covered with a carpet of jet-black curly hair, although she did not broadcast her curiosity. Put him down for a maybe, she had decided. At the moment she preferred to keep their relationship on a plateau of benign, sophisticated banter.

      Under the tent, they headed for one of the bars, threading their way through crowds of familiar political and social faces. She knew some of them, stopping to chat as she moved through the crowd, offering her face for the occasional double-cheeker. Monte worked the crowd in his own way, shaking hands, offering a wink or a bear hug where appropriate.

      It was the Washington social life as comfortable to Fiona as an old glove, despite her chosen profession as a homicide detective. She always marveled at the contrast, the Jekyll and Hyde duality of her life, never quite knowing which part of it was her true self.

      Monte brought her champagne, taking a neat scotch for himself. It looked like a double. They moved to a quiet spot to survey the scene.

      Why the sigh over Garfield’s table? Pappas asked.

      One of the bumped-off presidents, she replied.

      Hope there’s no symbolism there, Pappas said, casting his gaze about in mock fear. I need to retain all of my clients, and Sam Langford is at Garfield’s table, Pappas explained. On their first date he had told Fiona that Langford was a client, that he had run Langford’s two successful senatorial campaigns.

      An inveterate political watcher herself, a habit from her youth as the daughter of Senator Edward Fitzgerald, Fiona knew who Langford was: twice Florida Senator, a ‘comer,’ bright, handsome, a terrific speaker, fashionably conservative.

      Fiona recognized Langford standing near an attractive woman while chatting with a young couple. The young man had just handed the Florida Senator and his wife two drinks taken from a silver tray carried by white-gloved waiters. Only then did he serve himself and his date.

      He’s got it all. He lowered his voice to a mood-altering mutter. Maybe too much. Here he is, Langford said as he spied Pappas, the Greek Oracle.

      Dimples, Fiona thought. He had cute dimples and thick wavy light-brown hair going gracefully to grey. And blue eyes to boot. Not too tall, but flat-gutted and athletic looking.

      Introductions were exchanged. The attractive woman beside Langford was Nell Langford, his wife—tall, blonde, squeaky-clean, and smiley. Taken right off the shelf marked Obedient Political Wife, Fiona decided instantly. Somehow Nell’s smile seemed overly joyous in contrast with her eyes, which were sad and wary.

      The younger man was introduced as Bunkie Farrington, who then introduced the young woman, his date, Bonnie. Bunkie! The name itself seemed a definition of the man: he wore a high-collared tux and a red bow tie, and was blondish, balding, ferret-eyed. His entire demeanor said, Color me ‘preppy’ forever. Instantly she knew she had him pegged: Langford’s political lackey.

      Odd, she thought, how some men forecast their personas so completely. Or was her power of observation due to her profession?

      She could imagine Bunkie’s credo: I’d go through the fires of hell for that man, meaning Langford, as if they were joined at the hip. Bunkie must surely reason that there will be a big payoff in the end. She sniffed him, figured him for a shade over twenty-five. He stank of desperate ambition—the smell was always gamier at that age.

      Pappas says you’re a cop, Langford said to Fiona.

      Rest easy, Senator, you’re not under suspicion.

      Langford roared his laughter, then looked at Pappas. There’s your man, he said, pointing to the bulging middle behind Pappas’ cummerbund. He’s hiding the jewels in there.

      "Sam," Nell said with disapproval too genuine to be good-natured.

      Thievery is not her bag, Senator, Pappas shot back, masking his wound. She’s homicide.

      Heavy, Bunkie said, his interest elsewhere as he networked, his predatory eyes scoped the tent. In a flash he spotted his prey, moved out, and soon led a distinguished-looking gentlemen to the Senator’s side.

      You know Ambassador Blackburn, Bunkie said as they shook hands. Blackburn and Langford knew each other casually, but this was another moment for the Senator to show his flag to a representative of another powerful country. The two men chewed over amenities and small talk, and then parted.

      During the exchange, Bunkie continued to survey the crowd, found another victim, zeroed in, and struck. Senator Langford never moved—the idea was to bring the mountains to Mohammed. The sun never sets on Bunkie, Fiona thought. She disliked the man.

      My name is Kessel, a man said behind her in a clearly Germanic cadence. And I’ve been assigned to Garfield.

      Hans Kessel, Senator Langford said, putting out his hand.

      The Austrian Ambassador and the lovely Helga, Pappas whispered with an air of unmistakable contempt. Langford planted a double-cheeker on Helga, a spectacularly beautiful lady in a pink sheath gown. Around her neck was a dazzling ruby necklace with matching earrings. A diamond bracelet hung around one wrist and an assortment of rings decorated her graceful white fingers.

      Helga’s eyes sparkled with pleasure from behind high cheekbones. She beheld Langford, holding his gaze longer than what might be considered appropriate.

      Does it show? Pappas hissed, glancing at Helga and Langford.

      The jewelry?

      You know what I mean.

      Before Fiona could reply, the answer was irrevocably projected by Nell Langford’s barely perceptible lip tremor as she nodded toward Helga. An attempt at smiling would have created jagged fissures on her face.

      I was so happy when I saw the seating list, Kessel said. Fiona cut a glance at Bunkie, hoping for a wink—she knew it was he who arranged the seating. None came, of course; he did not even acknowledge her look.

      The band began to play soft dinner music and the guests straggled to their seats. Kessel took his place beside Nell, and Helga glided gracefully to a seat to the right of Langford. Bunkie flanked her on the other side. Beside him, responding to the appropriate male-female seating—and much to her distaste—came Fiona. Thankfully, she had Monte on her right.

      An army of white-gloved waiters fanned out to place salad and pour white wine. Fiona suspected that they would pay some lip service between courses, although she decided that Bunkie would be deliberately attentive to Helga to cover for Langford’s conspicuous interactions with Helga.

      Damn fool, Pappas whispered in Fiona’s ear. That bastard’s got an Achilles’ crotch.

      An occupational hazard for politicians, Fiona sighed.

      Langford’s got a political death wish, Pappas said. Fiona could tell he was genuinely annoyed. He’ll blow it. I know he will. He’s got a Napoleon Complex like poor Gary Hart. He shook his head. Zip it up, schmuck, he muttered under his breath.

      Maybe he wants to get caught, Fiona said, spooning out traditional cop deduction.

      He gets caught, I get nada, Pappas sighed. It’s a sad case. The man’s got it all. Looks. Brains. Good projection. Articulate. He shook his head.

      Seems he’s done all right so far, despite his… ah… predisposition to satyriasis, Fiona said.

      During a Senatorial campaign, the media’s ‘x-ray’ is only superficial. During a Presidential, it goes to the bone.

      She looked at him archly, catching the inadvertent pun. Finally he laughed and took a deep sip of his wine. Look at me, he chuckled, so concerned with another man’s sex life. He sighed theatrically. No justice anywhere. He feasts. I starve. Maybe there’s more to it than just business. He paused. Something like jealousy.

      Fiona patted Pappas’ hand and shook her head. You men and your penis envy, she chuckled. He laughed.

      Maybe we can share the joke, Bunkie said.

      We are sharing it, Pappas said. There was no love lost between the two men.

      The joke won’t work out of context, Fiona said as Bunkie shrugged and turned back to Helga.

      Plates were exchanged. An elegantly displayed fish course followed. Then perfect pink filets along with the French reds. Vegetables were served with consummate skill. It was an orgy of overstaffing, a pampering, a well-rehearsed and executed event. Someone would surely get a bonus.

      Being rich is always better, she decided, feeling again the profound, guilt-riddled kinship with her fellow cops who were struggling to get by. During an occasion like this party, she would suffer severe doubt and second thoughts about her career choice. Was she really the alien she imagined, the daughter of power and privilege now slumming in a blue-collar ménage?

      It was a question she posed with ever-diminishing frequency. The police force had hooked her: the idea of it, the challenge, the danger, the adventure, and the contrast. Despite the occasional pettiness, the turf wars and racial anxieties, the ego and power plays, there were psychic satisfactions in her job that were enriching and worthwhile. Having her own Fuck You money made it even more fulfilling.

      The grass only seems greener, Fiona smirked to herself, her gaze washing over this acre of privilege.

      Between courses the band played festive music and the dance floor filled with whirling couples.

      Ironies are everywhere, Pappas whispered. She followed his gaze. He was watching a stately woman dancing with a ramrod-stiff grey-haired man in a two-step. No talk passed between the two as they concentrated on the band’s rhythm.

      That’s the first ‘Mrs. Langford,’ Pappas said. You just can’t get them to go home once they’ve seen ‘Paree.’ Voluble while sober, Pappas seemed to be growing even more loquacious with his wine intake, which was considerable. The waiters, to keep the assemblage well watered, were pouring heavy, leaving no glass untopped.

      It’s tough when they lose their status, Fiona mused, remembering her mother after her father had died.

      There’s some cache in being an ex-wife. You get to keep the name, for example. He lifted his chin. Like the first Mrs. Langford.

      And she goes to the best places.

      She deserves it, Pappas said, leaning closer to her ear. Now it’s little Nell’s cross to bear. Fiona looked over at Nell, whose pose was of one deeply interested in what Kessel had to say, while her eyes drifted frequently to take in Langford and Helga. Bunkie and Helga seemed to be doing most of the talking.

      Can’t kick the one-eyed monster, Monte sighed, taking another deep sip of wine. Fiona turned to look at him, slightly puzzled, until she realized what he meant, she felt herself blush. Sorry to put it that crudely. The man’s incorrigible. In a minute he’ll be asking all the girls to dance, little Nell for openers. You included. A red herring for what he really wants.

      How does he manage it? A man in the public eye?

      That’s old Bunkie’s job. He’s the staff man in charge of nooky. He also does the kiss-off routine when things get too hot. It’s a valuable job in this town.

      And nobody knows? Fiona asked.

      We try to keep it in a tight little group.

      She turned to him. Then why are you telling me?

      He shook his head and smiled. I trust you.

      After a while Langford stirred and asked his wife to dance. As Pappas had predicted, then he asked Bonnie, who had barely uttered a word all night. On cue, Fiona came up on the dance roster: Langford asked Pappas’ permission, as Fiona was his date—the old-fashioned way. Pappas shrugged his consent. Fiona snickered in distaste. I dance with whomever I please, she told herself pugnaciously, then let Langford lead her to the dance floor.

      Close up, she felt the tightness of his body, his absolute sense of confidence in the way he held her. His dance technique, a bit heavy on the pelvis, was a blatant flirtation. Unfortunately, Monte had spoiled the discovery: on the dance floor, Langford was a natural seducer. She would have liked to find that out for herself.

      You’re the prettiest homicide detective I’ve ever met, he whispered, pulling her closer for the compliment. Is he about to make a move? she wondered. Maybe someday you can tell me how you do it.

      Do what?

      Find the killers.

      He twirled her around, chuckling. Despite the warning bells, she felt strangely comfortable in his arms. She even felt, she admitted to herself, tiny tingles in the right places. Son of a bitch has the stuff, she decided. She gave him a nickname on the spot: Senator Love. Hands-down, that was it. Senator Love.

      After his complement, which was somewhat sexual, had been made, he moved to a more cerebral subject, but not before nodding and smiling at other dancers. His way of putting Fiona on hold was a class act.

      Odd work for a politician’s daughter, detective work, he said.

      What did your father do? she asked.

      A minister, actually.

      Well then, she said, leaving the idea unfinished. He quickly caught on to her banter.

      We do only what’s possible, and leave the rest to God.

      Peripherally, she could see Langford’s first wife as she two-stepped toward him. Fiona found herself resisting Langford’s lead, as if the impending confrontation was to be avoided.

      Hello, Sam, his ex-wife said as she whirled past. Close up, she looked bigger than life, big bosom, a round face. Pleasing plumpness filled her out, flattening any discernible wrinkles. She was a picture of strength. It was hard to imagine that she could be an ex-anything.

      Frances, Langford acknowledged, offering a thin smile. She felt a snicker of contempt escape his lips.

      No love lost, she decided. Even so, the greeting seemed quite civilized.

      You have any children? Fiona asked, suddenly embarrassed by her overt curiosity.

      Just two. Eight and six, he said, offering no details.

      None with the second wife, Fiona thought, oddly relieved. The band stopped and Langford led her back to the table.

      Now, Pappas said as the band struck up again.

      Langford and Helga got up to dance. It seemed a cue for all the others: Kessel and Nell, Bunkie and Bonnie.

      Bad knee, Pappas smiled, excusing himself.

      Really? Fiona asked.

      Keep watching the fun.

      They watched. Helga’s slender body melted into Langford’s, although above their waists the dance had the illusion of decorum.

      He’ll surely not do it tonight? Fiona asked.

      Never at night, Monte clucked. That’s his modus operandi. He’s a matinee man, and Bunkie’s a master of scheduling. Easier to elude detection.

      Does Nell know?

      Oh, I’d say she might suspect the one night stands. It’s the affairs, the serious stuff that she’s on the lookout for. He looked at Langford and Helga, intent on keeping their pose casual. Like her.

      Must be exhausting work, Fiona said.

      Keeps her on her toes.

      Fiona watched them. Without Monte’s running commentary, she might have missed it. They didn’t appear obviously improper, not unless the idea was put into your head. Her gaze wandered to the Kessel and Nell, who were talking as they danced. Occasionally, on a turn, Nell looked toward her husband and his partner. Was it a look of curiosity, or anxiety? For a moment, her eyes narrowed as she watched them, as if she were making a great effort to pierce the invisible veil in which the two seemed shrouded.

      At one point in the dance, Frances sailed past. She, too, seemed to be

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