Free Washington Masquerade by Warren Adler Page B

stonewalling. I had to defend our integrity.”
    Fiona was proud of her boss. He did not bend easily. Apparently, the dressing down continued. He looked to the ceiling and made gestures that indicated he was being patient, although not obsequious. Then it was over, and he slammed down the phone.
    â€œLet us say he didn’t like my choice of words.”
    â€œBolger is a mean-minded shit,” Fiona said, ignoring the possibility of electronic surveillance, even welcoming it. “You simply didn’t take his bait.”
    â€œDidn’t need bait,” the Chief said. “They’re out to land the big one. I know it. They know it and….” He glanced from face to face. “And you know it.” He chomped down on his Panatela and spit out a wad of moist tobacco, which missed his ashtray. “We haven’t even got a guppy to throw at them.” He looked up, his eyes streaked with red veins shaped like lightning bursts.
    â€œWe understand the drill, Chief,” Fiona said, displaying her sense of kinship with her boss, never more connected. She wanted to lighten his mood. “We’ll start at the beginning and go on until the end, then stop.”
    â€œWe’re all Alice in Wonderland on this one, FitzGerald,” Hodges retorted, showing off his well-read bona fides.
    â€œIf there’s a connection,” Izzy said, his attitude like a battle cry, “we’ll find it, Chief.”
    â€œAnd if there isn’t?” Fiona asked.
    â€œThen we’ll find that, too.”
    ***
    The reporters had tried every which way to get the Chief to open the door to the possibility of murder. He declined to give them the satisfaction, and the press conference, Fiona thought, had ended in dissatisfaction. She fully expected the media to blast her boss for deliberate obfuscation.
    All agreed that the most baffling aspects of Burns’ death were the lack of personal identification and the false moustache and phony eyeglasses. The origin of the eyeglasses was hardly a mystery. They could be purchased at numerous places—drug stores, department stores, supermarkets. They were just too ordinary to be traced. The moustache was another matter. There were a number of stores in Washington and the suburbs that dealt in such costuming accouterments.
    To save time, they split up, with Izzy working the northern Virginia suburbs and Fiona, Maryland and the District of Columbia. Armed with a picture of Burns, they spent the day canvassing the stores. Considering the number and styles of the moustaches, they had speculated that Burns had bought them all at one place.
    At a magic store in the District, Fiona found a clerk with a vague memory of the sale. The picture was of no help. Probably wore a hat and specs, Fiona reasoned, but the clerk remembered the sale.
    â€œI had to go into the stockroom to get a full selection. He took about a dozen styles, including some phony beards. Paid cash.”
    â€œDid he give any hint of his intentions?”
    â€œI never asked, and he never said. I assumed some costumed gig.”
    â€œWhy so many styles?”
    â€œYou’d have to ask him.”
    â€œWish I could,” Fiona mused aloud.
    â€œHardly helpful,” Izzy admitted to Fiona when they met again. “Answers where but not why.”
    â€œEasy on the why. He did not want to be recognized,” Fiona muttered.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œGod knows.”
    â€œYou claim the inside track, Izzy. You ask him.”
    Izzy chuckled then grew serious.
    â€œNo accident, Fi,” Izzy said. “Burns would be too alert to make a misstep on a train platform. Not exactly a common incident in an empty non–rush hour station. As for suicide….”
    â€œThe man was a writer. Writer’s write. The lack of a note inhibits any clear vote for suicide.”
    â€œStill, it could be an out. Declare suicide and close the book.”
    â€œIn fairyland maybe, not in