Bettinger looked all this over more than once and finally sat down gingerly in a chair. He was, Gregor remembered, a neat man, and a little squeamish about dirt.
“My God,” he said, “that’s a frightening woman. That’s a terrifying woman. That’s a gorgon.”
“You mean Victoria Harte?”
“Of course I mean Victoria Harte. She’s the kind of woman who always makes me—never mind. She’s the kind of woman who eats her young.”
Gregor could have said that Janet Harte Fox did not look, eaten, metaphorically or otherwise. Instead, he went to the window and looked out. The strains of music were stronger now, playing “America.” Along the beach, the flags, the bunting, and the fireworks all seemed to have multiplied a hundredfold. In the weakening light, they looked oddly solemn, like the ritual symbols at a patriotic funeral.
Gregor came away from the window and sat down on the bed. “Well,” he said. “Let’s talk. To be specific, let’s talk about your ongoing investigation into Dr. Kevin Debrett.”
“There isn’t—”
“Carl.”
Bettinger flushed again. “There isn’t anything I can tell you about an ongoing investigation of Dr. Kevin Debrett.”
Gregor Demarkian sighed. Carl Bettinger sounded stubborn. What was worse was the fact that Bettinger had apparently forgotten everything he ever knew about Gregor Demarkian. Maybe Carl thought Gregor was getting old enough to be senile. Gregor put his hands on his knees and said, “Carl, listen to me. I was with the Bureau for twenty years. I know how you work and I know why you work. The first thing I thought of, when you first came to me about this business with Senator Fox, was that you were lying to me. That was the first thing, Carl.”
“But—”
“No buts. Listen. Senator Fox was passing out at cocktail parties. Fine. Now. On the surface it looked like a medical or psychological problem. That would have nothing to do with you. Then there were two other possibilities. In the first place, someone could be making very inept attempts to murder the man. That would have nothing to do with you, either. It would be a matter for the District of Columbia police. The Bureau investigates murders on federal land, on Indian reservations when it is asked, and as liaison in cases of serial murder that have extended over several states. None of that would apply here. The final possibility was that the senator was being sabotaged by a foreign or subversive group. That would have had something to do with you. But that was not possible.”
“Why not?”
“Carl, Carl, Carl,” Gregor said patiently. “What would any subversive group want with Senator Fox? He was on no military or foreign affairs committees. As far as I can tell, he never took any interest in that sort of thing at all.”
“He voted against every military appropriation ever proposed in the United States Senate while he was there,” Carl said quickly.
Gregor shrugged. “So what? So did a couple of dozen other senators. The only way to make a case in that direction is to assume a conspiracy of massive proportions, a conspiracy to kill all those senators, not just one very unimportant one. I’ve still got contacts in the Bureau, Carl. If there had been something like that, I’d have had intimations of it before now.”
“Oh.”
“In case you’re wondering, I can make an argument against a plot by domestic groups as well. The senator was a liberal, but he was a very wishy-washy liberal. If the Ku Klux Klan was going to go after somebody, it would be somebody like Kennedy. Then there was all that nonsense about the Director.”
“That wasn’t nonsense,” Carl said. “The Director really did—”
“I’m sure he did. But he didn’t do it because Dan Chester was his friend, because he isn’t. The Director is a Reagan man. The Republicans think Chester’s poison, and the present administration thinks he’s worse than poison. I suggest that Mr. Chester’s request for help came at a very opportune time. I remember you very well, you know. You always did hate to lose.”
Bettinger looked up and set his jaw. “I don’t lose,” he said. “Not ever.”
“You’d win with less trouble if you’d learn to be straightforward with people who can help you. You’ve been infected with spy fever, Carl. You’ve started keeping secrets that don’t need keeping from people they don’t need to be kept from. When were you attached to Behavioral Sciences?”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are.”
Bettinger sighed. “I was brought over from Organized Crime in January,” he said. “There was this problem, and there had been a couple of other people working on it, but—”