Free The Witch of Watergate by Warren Adler

Fiona snapped, remembering how her father was excoriated by the
press when he made his antiwar stand. She glanced at the Eggplant. "The
fact is, we're all on the receiving end now. Like it or not."
    The Eggplant nodded, but he did not pick up the cudgels to
dispute Evans. At the moment he wasn't happy with the media, especially the Post .
But when they made him a hero, publicized his exploits, he was the first to
embrace them.
    Evans was like most people not in the power loop. They
loved to see someone, particularly a person from the so-called power elite,
impaled in the press. It was a favorite Washington sport, like watching a
bullfight. Many were quick, eager, to pass a guilty judgement, especially if
the person impaled was a "have" as opposed to a "have not."
Seeing these mighty "haves" fall was to many, especially to a woman
with an obvious chip on her shoulder like Charleen Evans, an exhilarating
experience. Clearly, the root of her hostility was putting Fiona in the
category of the "haves," then bashing her.
    Although Evans never spoke the words, Fiona imagined that
she could hear them loud and clear: "The apple never falls far from the
tree." Be on guard, Fiona cautioned herself. This woman wants to cut your
heart out.
    "However defined," Fiona began, tackling the
issue of "wronged" versus "exposed." Avoiding any show of
weakness, she had to repress any sign of animosity. "A media attack,
deserved or undeserved, provides grounds for a motive. On that basis alone, the
woman had legions of enemies."
    "No question about that," the Eggplant agreed,
determined not to take sides between them. It was obvious that he wanted them
to stay partnered. He rubbed his chin and took a deep drag on his panatela.
"Good thinking on getting that computer material. Might be something in
it."
    "I can't take any of the credit on that one, Chief.
We're lucky to have someone as computer literate as Officer Evans." Fiona
looked toward the recipient of her compliment, hoping that her patronizing tone
was rankling. Evans' expression remained neutral, showing neither pleasure nor
pain.
    The phone rang on the Eggplant's desk and he picked it up
routinely.
    "Greene here."
    After a brief pause, he straightened in his chair, a
gesture that signaled that someone very important was on the phone. Despite the
macho pose to his underlings, he could appear groveling when it suited his
purpose, a performance that assuaged any guilt in her use of the term
"Eggplant."
    "We're not a hundred percent certain, Mr.
Barker," the Eggplant said after listening for a few moments. They could
hear the muffled voice on the other end. "An autopsy might tell us
something." There was more talk at the other end. "Yes, we do have
our hands full. But we're on this one. You can be sure about that." More
talk at the other end. The Eggplant lifted his eyes and looked at them, first
one then the other. "Yes. We do appreciate that, Mr. Barker." The
Eggplant looked at his watch. "We can be there in less than a half hour.
I'm sure it would be helpful. Yes. See you then."
    The Eggplant hung up the phone and bashed out his panatela.
He was smiling, his change of attitude abrupt, showing them he was merely
playacting.
    "The man himself," he said. "This Dearborn
thing's got him rattled." The Eggplant rubbed his chin in contemplation,
then he stood up and paced his office, lost in thought. "Offered carte
blanche to the investigation. That's exactly his words. Carte blanche. Who
could blame him? They start knocking off his reporters for writing their shit,
who knows where it ends?" He shook his head and stomped his foot in a kind
of dance of joy. "Harry Barker himself. Shit. He wants in. Needs us now."
    As editor of the vaunted Washington Post , Harry
Barker was the single most powerful person in Washington. At the paper, his
word was law, absolute. He had the ear and the complete confidence of the
paper's owner, Mrs. Grayson, who, along with most Post employees,
worshipped him or appeared