Free Washington Masquerade by Warren Adler Page A

situation as uncomfortable for the reporters as possible—no chairs, no big indoor hall. The problem with this one was that a huge crowd was gathering. Finally, he rose, checked his appearance in a wall mirror, and then started out his office door.
    â€œLamb to the slaughter,” he muttered.
    Fiona and Izzy walked a few steps behind him.
    Standing in front of a bank of microphones, he was pummeled by reporters’ questions.
    â€œAre you being pressured in any way by the administration?” one reporter shouted above the din.
    â€œNo,” Hodges said emphatically.
    â€œAre you still convinced that this was a suicide or an accident?”
    â€œUntil all the facts are developed, I am never convinced of anything.”
    â€œWere there really no witnesses to Burns’ fall?”
    â€œThere were no witnesses.”
    â€œWhen you rule out suicide or accident, do you rule in murder?”
    â€œAsk me when we rule out suicide or accident.”
    â€œWhy was Burns in disguise?” a woman reporter chirped in a shrill voice.
    â€œIt is still an open question.”
    â€œHave you been contacted by the FBI or the CIA?”
    â€œNo comment.”
    â€œDo you expect them to contact you?”
    â€œThis investigation is not their jurisdiction.”
    â€œHave you learned anything about Burns’ death that you have not told us?”
    â€œI am holding nothing back.”
    â€œDo you believe this was politically motivated?”
    It was the usual trick question. Hodges was good at fielding them.
    â€œWhat was?”
    â€œBurns’ death.”
    â€œAre you asking if Burns’ death was politically motivated?”
    The Chief smiled and shook his head. The gesture was his comment on the reporter’s question, which was meant to dismiss it. The reporters laughed at this faux gesture of frustration.
    Then Harrison Bolger, his jowls shaking as he spoke, chimed in.
    â€œChief Hodges,” he began, the preface issued with obvious contempt, “why are you stonewalling? Everybody understands that this death smells suspiciously of murder perpetrated to silence one of the country’s most vocal critics of this President. At the very least, why not acknowledge the obvious that this was no suicide or accident?”
    Hodges listened stoically until the reporter finished, knowing that the question was asked to deliberately inflame him. To his credit, he showed no emotion.
    â€œMr. Bolger, I congratulate you on your alleged olfactory powers, but your detective instincts need some work. We do not make cases based on imaginary odors.”
    Bolger flushed deep red while some reporters snickered, although it was obvious that the reportorial tide was beginning to run against the Chief.
    â€œWas the killing of Adams Burns a political assassination or not?” one of the television reporters asked, a young blonde, obviously trying to make her bones.
    Fiona could see that some of the reporters were looking at this case as a career maker. Shades of Woodward and Bernstein, Fiona thought. They wanted to characterize the man as a toady. She caught the eye of the Chief, who nodded as if he had read her mind.
    â€œWe’re in the detective business. When we detect the truth of the way Mr. Burns died, you will be the first to know. In the meantime, let us do our job.”
    It did not satisfy the reporters, who continued to shout questions in the wake of the departing Chief. Fiona and Izzy followed him into his office. He shrugged, slumped in his chair, and pulled out a Panatela, which he unwrapped, put in his mouth, and chomped. Before he could get a word out, the telephone rang. He picked it up, his face screwed up into a position of pain as he listened to the voice at the other end. Fiona couldn’t hear what was being said but the level and tone of the voice sounded obviously angry.
    â€œSarcastic, Mayor?” Hodges asked into the phone. “We’re being accused of