Free American Sextet by Warren Adler Page B

these heady precincts without developing antennae
for this kind of scam. He looked upon them as adversaries, an appropriately
journalistic posture.
    Naturally, they would all cry entrapment. It would be their
principal defense. More raw meat for the media mill. Even if they chose
confession, which was the latest strategic vogue, it would only increase the
after-play, making the titillation even more valuable.
    After their moment in the lurid glare of scandal, after the
anguished breast-beating, the protestations and confessions, they would all
land on their feet. Some would also write books themselves. Maybe sell the
rights to a movie. Hell, it was a great growth industry. One or two might even
take refuge in religion. Ambition, he was certain, also had its genetic base.
The kind of boys he had in mind would make out anywhere. For most, it would be
a good excuse to change direction, find a new track. Some would even use it to
dump their wives. They would all have to be lusty boys with heavy appetites.
That sort should be easy to find, he reasoned. Sexual discipline wasn't much of
a virtue in today's world.
    To do it right, though, it had to be massive, not just a
single isolated exposure, not just Arthur Fellows. It had to be bigger in
scope, touch the untouchables, the high and mighty of government and society.
By God, he wanted to bring them all to their knees. He would become the P. T.
Barnum of sexual scandal, a three-ring virtuoso, touching every point on the
American power compass. The White House, the Senate, the House, the Military,
the Diplomatic Corps, and, if he could pull it off, the Supreme Court. An
American Sextet. With Dorothy as his instrument, he'd singlehandedly send up
the entire checks and balances system.

V
    The tension in the office had the tautness of a violin
string. They had brought in a suspect in the teenage murders. The man was a
Marine sergeant stationed at the barracks on Sixth Street. Worse, he was white,
and had been observed trying to pull a young black woman into his car.
    Picked up swiftly, he had been booked and hustled into the
interrogation room under tight security. Grim-faced media people hung out in
the corridors. The newspaper and television reporters were having a field day
over the murders, focusing on the lurid sob stuff. A fund had been started for
the illegitimate children of the victims.
    After a round-the-clock grilling, the man continued to
maintain his innocence. He insisted that he'd accosted the young woman because
he was certain it was she who had stolen his wallet two weeks previously.
    "The chief's chewing carpets," Lieutenant Brooks,
the number two said. Known, not without affection, as one of the eggplant's
stooges, Brooks was the eggplant's huge but gentle sidekick who was always
happy to fob off both authority and blame on someone else. Like many policemen,
he had a side trade, house painter, which he plied in his spare time. Since he
was making more off the books than he could hope to draw from the public
payroll, he wasn't up for rocking the boat.
    "Muvva had to be a honky," he groaned. "Set
the juices going. Bad for the boss. They're really pushin' upstairs..."
His manner was furtive; his eyes darted from side to side.
    "...and he's got orders to crack the bastard or it's
his ass."
    Despite her own feelings about the eggplant, stories like
that triggered compassion. Somebody was always about to have the man's ass.
    "He could be the wrong man," Cates stage
whispered. Brooks heard him and smiled.
    "If he has to, he'll make it right."
    "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Cates
asked Fiona on the way to their car.
    "Police bravado. The myth that everybody's guilty of
something. Sometimes a false confession with good circumstantial evidence can
provide a good breather."
    "You mean a deliberate frame-up?"
    "Tsk. Tsk. We're being quite a boy scout this
morning."
    She knew immediately she'd made a mistake. His skin cast
turned slightly yellow. Was it the "boy"