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Authors: Warren Adler
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woman and the crime that had destroyed her fit into the
category of a "must do" for him. His forensic detective work was an
essential first step in bringing the perpetrator of such a crime to justice.
"There's more," Gail said with a sideward glance
at Fiona, who nodded her permission.
"The father will be a problem. Apparently he put lots
of muscle into arranging his daughter's foray into town. All of the interviews
came down from the top. Thomas Herbert, as I've discovered, cuts a wide swath
through Washington, official and nonofficial. He's one of those political power
brokers, well connected to both parties."
The Eggplant shook his head with disgust.
"That's exactly what we need," the Eggplant said.
"More pressure from the top."
"I'm sorry," Gail said. "But I thought you
ought to know."
"I appreciate your concern, Officer Prentiss,"
the Eggplant said, with more resignation that sarcasm. "What other joyful
news do you bring?"
Gail, not quite knowning how to interpret his comment,
offered a half-smile.
"I spoke briefly to all the people she interviewed
with. Just preliminary interviews. Two of the people were women. Strangers. The
one at Justice was a man. A young hotshot, Phelps Barker. Father is a physician
friend of Mr. Herbert's. He grew up with the victim."
"What was his reaction?"
"Shook up. We're seeing him tomorrow." She looked
toward Fiona, who nodded. She felt an acute sense of irony, wondering if all
the shoe-leathering and interviewing would, in the end, be merely red herrings,
detours on the road to Farley Lipscomb. But one factor was obvious; their investigation
would take them hopscotching along the "golden power grid."
At her father's knee, Fiona had learned what was meant by
"the golden power grid." They were the connecting links through which
the power flowed, not unlike the way electricity was distributed. People who
were connected to people who were connected to people who made things happen.
They would be crisscrossing the circuitry that led through
connectors of wealth and privilege, through corporations and law firms, country
clubs, pockets of society connections, through interlocking political power
links. They were all hooked together seamlessly along the grid. The energy
generated along this grid pumped out rewards to those who knew the complex
circuitry and how to move through it without being electrocuted.
Her father had once been part of it, and although he had
finally been cast out of the net, Fiona had continued to maintain a connection
to it through her childhood contacts. She was a well-accepted asset on the
"A list" Washington social scene, a position she continued to
cultivate. In her social circles, her profession was considered more exotic
than déclassé, and her subtle knowledge of the grid structure gave her a
special cachet.
She also had the means and the venue, her lovely house in
prestigious Spring Valley, which she often threw open for a small dinner party
or a larger cocktail bash, a necessary ritual to continue her level of
acceptance on the social scene.
The Eggplant had no illusions about what he was up against
when an investigation spilled into the power grid. Thomas Herbert, Fiona knew,
would arrive like a bull in a china shop. Grief and outrage are powerful
stimulants and he would use whatever muscle he could muster to light a fire
under the investigation, a process that always resulted in more heat than
light.
"Theories?" the Eggplant asked, shooting a glance
at Fiona, who diverted her eyes momentarily, then forced herself to stand up to
the question.
"So far, only the obvious," Fiona said, clearing
her throat, trying to keep her voice from wavering. "The woman was
probably consensual at first."
She felt Gail's sudden movement, the body language of
disagreement. Earlier, she had not found the courage to broach the subject with
her partner.
"The man was obviously experienced in this type of
sexual behavior." Fiona pointed to a photograph on the
category of a "must do" for him. His forensic detective work was an
essential first step in bringing the perpetrator of such a crime to justice.
"There's more," Gail said with a sideward glance
at Fiona, who nodded her permission.
"The father will be a problem. Apparently he put lots
of muscle into arranging his daughter's foray into town. All of the interviews
came down from the top. Thomas Herbert, as I've discovered, cuts a wide swath
through Washington, official and nonofficial. He's one of those political power
brokers, well connected to both parties."
The Eggplant shook his head with disgust.
"That's exactly what we need," the Eggplant said.
"More pressure from the top."
"I'm sorry," Gail said. "But I thought you
ought to know."
"I appreciate your concern, Officer Prentiss,"
the Eggplant said, with more resignation that sarcasm. "What other joyful
news do you bring?"
Gail, not quite knowning how to interpret his comment,
offered a half-smile.
"I spoke briefly to all the people she interviewed
with. Just preliminary interviews. Two of the people were women. Strangers. The
one at Justice was a man. A young hotshot, Phelps Barker. Father is a physician
friend of Mr. Herbert's. He grew up with the victim."
"What was his reaction?"
"Shook up. We're seeing him tomorrow." She looked
toward Fiona, who nodded. She felt an acute sense of irony, wondering if all
the shoe-leathering and interviewing would, in the end, be merely red herrings,
detours on the road to Farley Lipscomb. But one factor was obvious; their investigation
would take them hopscotching along the "golden power grid."
At her father's knee, Fiona had learned what was meant by
"the golden power grid." They were the connecting links through which
the power flowed, not unlike the way electricity was distributed. People who
were connected to people who were connected to people who made things happen.
They would be crisscrossing the circuitry that led through
connectors of wealth and privilege, through corporations and law firms, country
clubs, pockets of society connections, through interlocking political power
links. They were all hooked together seamlessly along the grid. The energy
generated along this grid pumped out rewards to those who knew the complex
circuitry and how to move through it without being electrocuted.
Her father had once been part of it, and although he had
finally been cast out of the net, Fiona had continued to maintain a connection
to it through her childhood contacts. She was a well-accepted asset on the
"A list" Washington social scene, a position she continued to
cultivate. In her social circles, her profession was considered more exotic
than déclassé, and her subtle knowledge of the grid structure gave her a
special cachet.
She also had the means and the venue, her lovely house in
prestigious Spring Valley, which she often threw open for a small dinner party
or a larger cocktail bash, a necessary ritual to continue her level of
acceptance on the social scene.
The Eggplant had no illusions about what he was up against
when an investigation spilled into the power grid. Thomas Herbert, Fiona knew,
would arrive like a bull in a china shop. Grief and outrage are powerful
stimulants and he would use whatever muscle he could muster to light a fire
under the investigation, a process that always resulted in more heat than
light.
"Theories?" the Eggplant asked, shooting a glance
at Fiona, who diverted her eyes momentarily, then forced herself to stand up to
the question.
"So far, only the obvious," Fiona said, clearing
her throat, trying to keep her voice from wavering. "The woman was
probably consensual at first."
She felt Gail's sudden movement, the body language of
disagreement. Earlier, she had not found the courage to broach the subject with
her partner.
"The man was obviously experienced in this type of
sexual behavior." Fiona pointed to a photograph on the
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