American Quartet by Warren Adler Read Free Book Online Page A

“They usually skipped any references to Tad’s virility as if it were a conspiracy of silence. But they had a lot to say about that damned eagle watching over them on his big bed. Perform or else. One of them had a fantasy that if she faltered, the damned thing would swoop down and bite off her nipples.”
    “Gross.”
    “One of them said it was the eagle that really turned her on. She wouldn’t dare not come.”
    “Who was that?”
    “None of your business.”
    “Your business is my business. Especially this business.”
    She patted him fondly there, a signal for the beginning of a new cycle.
    “You’re just about the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me,” he said, and their sexual stirrings altered every nerve end.
    “Must be love,” she whispered.
    “Must be.” Only this could stop him talking.

    “Just don’t introduce me as ‘My Homicide Honey,’ ” she whispered as they passed through Remington’s heavy paneled door. He was receiving in the vestibule in front of a large oil of Frederic Remington, a cowboy with a droopy moustache on a horse. The host claimed distant cousinship to the artist, although no one had checked its veracity.
    “Wearing your gun?” Bruce asked. He could never accept the fact that she always brought her gun with her to parties. It was regulation for an off-duty cop to have his piece handy when in the District of Columbia. Because it was summer, she had put it in a shoulderstrap purse, the daintiest and dressiest she could find.
    “In here,” she patted the purse. “Less chic than serviceable. But it does the job.”
    “If they only knew what was in there.”
    “Well, if you can carry a hidden weapon, I can.”
    He had wanted to respond in kind but Remington was upon him, offering his handsome face with a broad smile.
    “I see you brought your daughter,” Remington joshed. He knew how to pay a compliment.
    “I didn’t want to compete in your range,” Bruce countered, introducing Fiona.
    “Ah,” he said admiringly. “A daughter of the old sod. I’m really glad you could come.”
    “He’s got the best view in town,” Bruce said. “Had the house moved to accommodate the spectacle.”
    “Well, it’s patriotic at least,” Fiona murmured. The house had begun to weave its awesome spell, adding to her discomfort. Her trained detective’s eye swept the room, revealing no one she knew, although faces were vaguely recognizable. Bruce introduced her around and picked two Scotches off a silver tray being passed by a waiter. In the dining room, she saw portraits of somber ex-Presidents overlooking waiters in black tie who were preparing a buffet.
    “There’s Senator Moynihan,” Bruce said suddenly. “Got to do my thing. I need the guy in my campaign. Mind?”
    “I’m not a child,” she said. She actually felt like a child suddenly caught in the rain in an open field. There seemed no place to hide.
    It was Remington himself who came to the rescue. His wary host’s eye had apparently sensed her discomfort.
    “We can see the fireworks from the rear lawn,” he said. “Considering the distance, the display is surprisingly clear, although we don’t hear the boom boom.”
    “I love your house,” she said. It was the most appropriate remark she could think of.
    “A bit of a barn,” he said modestly.
    He smiled, but his blue eyes, despite his charm, seemed layered with ice, confusing her. Perhaps the voters had also seen the chill beneath the facade. His portrait above the fireplace revealed a gorgeous youth and he was aging perfectly, like a well-turned roast, wrinkling in just the right places. His chin was still firm. Beneath his fitted pin-striped suit, he appeared lithe and muscular.
    “This is Fiona FitzGerald, Sean,” he called suddenly to a youngish man with a ceremonial air.
    “Sean Ambrose, the Irish ambassador. This is Miss FitzGerald.”
    “Cork,” he said.
    “On the money,” she replied. “My father is a professional