Free The Witch of Watergate by Warren Adler Page B

her retort. She was also surprised at Barker's attitude. For some reason she
had expected it to be different—if not grieving, at least respectful. Polly
Dearborn was, after all, his ace investigative reporter.
    "We think she was murdered," the Eggplant said
flatly, then hedged: "Not that we're ruling out suicide, but it's become
more and more doubtful."
    "I think you're right, Captain," Barker said.
"If you do rule out suicide then the ramifications for us are enormous.
Let's face it, the obvious conclusion is that she would have been killed
because of something she did on the job. Nothing like that has ever happened to
any of our reporters. Not in my memory. It has the stink of terrorism. I'm not
saying she was murdered by anyone she wrote about. But I'm sure you're not
going to rule that out. There's also a bigger picture here. Like she might have
been murdered to intimidate us, to serve as a kind of warning. What do you
think, Captain?"
    The Eggplant rubbed his chin, took his time. He had
apparently decided how he wished to appear to this powerful editor. Fiona
watched him transform himself into the wise old darkie, the philosopher who had
seen it all. He was trotting out his garb of dignity.
    "We rarely theorize about the obvious, Mr. Barker. Not
that everything you say might be correct. We've barely begun our investigation.
The victim also had a personal life, a life away from the business. That, too,
must be explored."
    "Personal life?" Barker said. "Not Polly.
She was always working. I never knew her to have a boyfriend. She had
escorts." He looked toward Fiona. "You know what I mean. No love
interest. Not even a girlfriend. Aloof. That was Polly Dearborn. A loner. As
far as I know, few people were ever invited up to her pad in the Watergate.
'The witch's lair,' the wags called it. Not that she didn't go out. She went
out a lot. She could put it on. Be social, gregarious, sometimes funny. But she
never fooled me. Nor did she try to. Her kind of work required obsession, dedication."
    The day's paper was on the desk near his elbow and he
slapped it with the palm of his hand. "She couldn't do what she did
without that kind of focus. You could see it from the beginning, the moment I
saw her. I hired her fifteen years ago. She had worked on a paper in South
Carolina, had this sweet drawl, innocent face." He shook a finger in the
air. "Didn't fool me. I knew a nutcutter when I saw one."
    "I seemed to have formed the same impression from her
stories," Fiona said.
    "They passed muster, though. Lawyers raked over her
stuff. I did, too. Not that we didn't have protests. Some of the people she hit
squealed like stuck pigs. We got hate mail, but we're used to that. Hell, every
day I get buckets of the shit, call me every name under the sun. Threaten my
life, my children, my grandchildren, my wife. Sometimes, whenever I get too
smug or cocky, I read a few. Sobers you up. Lots of crazies out there."
    "And Polly Dearborn," Fiona asked, "did she
get hate mail?"
    "Piles."
    The Eggplant shot her a glance of rebuke. This was to be
his show and he made it perfectly clear that she was to keep her mouth shut
until prompted.
    "You ever report these threats?" the Eggplant
asked.
    "You've got to be kidding. You'd clog up the system.
In my experience, they're empty threats, sounding off by wackos. Why bother?
They want to knock you off, they knock you off. No need to advertise." He
looked up at them. "I'm still here, aren't I?"
    The Eggplant shrugged acknowledgement then took his time
absorbing the information. It carried little surprise for each of them. Yes,
there were crazies out there. Yes, the media could trigger inflammatory
conduct. She watched the Eggplant struggle to keep his dignified image intact.
    "Has Polly Dearborn ever been threatened by the people
she wrote about?" he asked.
    "Horse of another color," Barker said. "Many
of them bitch like hell. They protest. They threaten legal action. Imply worse.
They come running to me or