They sat in the back of The Shamrock, a nondescript old-fashioned tavern on Wisconsin Avenue. Phil Owens, the Assistant Secretary of the Treasury, sat on the other side of the booth in the back of the tavern. One of his tasks was to oversee the Secret Service, charged with protecting the President and Vice President, their wives and children, former presidents, and others who were deemed by statute to need protection.
Phil's wife Dolly was one of Fiona's closest friends, a pal from her Mount Vernon school days, and Phil had been Fiona's teenage heartthrob, which was not the only part of her anatomy that had been affected. He was technically her first lover, the sex had been a clumsy and painful event, an embarrassing turnoff for both of them. For Fiona there was always the guilty thought that she had deliberately used Phil to "do the deed." It was never discussed between them ever again, but it had resulted in a permanent bond, their shared secret.
Phil's marriage to Dolly was a social event of the season, a full-scale wedding in the National Cathedral and a reception at the Chevy Chase Country Club. Fiona had been one of the bridesmaids. They mingled socially on the party circuit and called each other a few times a week. Fiona had been Dolly's confidante on her troubles with her husband, which ironically did not have to do with infidelity. Her point of contention was the old cliché: balancing work and home. Phil was driven and intense, determined to climb the ladder of political power and celebrity. Clearly he was moving ever upward.
Fiona did not shrink from using her personal connections in her investigations. Implicit in these contacts, especially among old friends, was absolute trust and confidentiality. Of course, official boundaries were adhered to, but often blurred. With close friends like Phil, they could address each other in shorthand and still maintain official, although quasi-distance.
"Do you think Burns' death is connected?"
"I couldn't say."
"Couldn't or wouldn't, Phil?"
"Both. Are you abandoning the idea of suicide or accident?"
"Not yet. We have no evidence or proof either way."
"So you're thrashing around for more sinister possibilities?"
"Just doing my job, Phil."
"And a weird job it is, Fi. I'll never understand why you're there, with your connections."
He shook his head and shrugged. Fiona refused any reaction.
"In your opinion, did your shop think that Burns' columns were directly threatening to the life of the President?"
Both knew there was a subtext here. All intense public rants against the President were on a watch list. Charged with protecting the President's life, the Secret Service was always ten steps ahead of possibilities. Phil had jurisdiction, but Fiona was not sure how far that went when extreme confidentiality was warranted.
"Of course, he caught our attention, I'll grant you that. We'd be remiss if we ignored him. His rants were off the charts."
"For research only?"
"Let's put it this way, Fi. We are forever watchful."
"I'm talking specifics, namely Burns."
"I told you, Fi, ever watchful."
She knew he had to be tight-lipped, but she was hoping that he might convey something in body language or facial expression that would reveal the seriousness of how Burns' death had been taken by the Feds. Clearly, she had gotten the message that their concern was very serious.
"Why would he attempt a disguise?" Fiona asked.
"Your guess is as good as mine."
"My guess is that there is probably a connection somewhere. If he was murdered, the motive could be something in your bailiwick."
She inspected his face. He remained silent, but she imagined she saw consternation in his eyes. Training and insight had taught her to decipher facial expressions and body language that revealed inner pain and uncertainty. Words, of course, held important clues, and she always listened with concentration to how people exposed themselves. Sometimes a misplaced word could open up a world of discovery. In Phil, Fiona saw pain, intense pain. Her friend was obviously under extreme pressure.
"Come on, Phil. I showed you mine, now you show me yours."
He blushed a vivid red, probably remembering their sexual catastrophe. Sucking in a deep breath, he nodded, his voice falling to a whisper.
"Of course, he was on our watch list. He was an inciter, no question about that, but he was not in our surveillance orbit. He had clearance for Presidential press conferences and was frequently in attendance. As for his so-called disguise, we're as baffled as you are, although it does raise red flags. Let's just say that various theories are being bandied about. As for his columns, we have the First Amendment to contend with. We step too far over the line, we could fall over the edge of a cliff."
He had ordered a martini, which he imbibed in tiny sips. She was nursing a beer.
In studying his face, she could still see vestiges of the handsome young boy on whom she had once had a crush. They had engaged in what was called in those days, "everything but." Then in a fit of adolescent passion, they jumped over that line, and the magic ended in painful clumsiness. Nevertheless, a generous affection remained between them.
"Okay then, but surely you can lay out a guess? I've got to admit that so far, we don't have much. We're looking at murder, but so far it's leading nowhere."
Phil took a deeper sip on his martini."
"I'd say he was meeting someone who didn't want anyone to know who he was meeting."
"The obvious," Fiona sighed.
"Sometimes the most obvious is… the most obvious."
"That's an opinion, Phil. Is there anything more? Is your shop fishing around?"
Phil's mouth moved into a joyless smile, which she took as confirmation, but did not pursue the query.
"Okay then. If you come across such a possibility, will you pass it along?"
He grew thoughtful and upended his martini. It was, she knew, a gesture of finality.
"We will observe the spirit of cooperation," Phil said, in a tone of false sarcasm.
Fiona was certain if it did not involve a massive and highly sensitive security matter, Phil would be forthcoming.
Then as if reading her mind, he muttered, "They wouldn't be that stupid."
"Wouldn't they?" Fiona whispered.
Phil shrugged.
