"You up?" Fiona asked the supine naked body beside her. Larry Porter, while not officially living under the roof of her Washington home, was her frequent bed guest. He was, as were certain of her previous companions, in the throes of a divorce. Somehow it was her fate to consort with what she often characterized as "castoffs," which was not entirely accurate.
Researching likely prospects for a continuing and perfect permanent arrangement was more to the point. Was such a mindset merely an excuse for promiscuity or was she really ambivalent about such an arrangement? Deliberately, she left the answer in limbo. So far though, she hadn't met "the one," although Larry was now on top of the list.
She had had many opportunities to get married, and had turned down numerous offers. She reveled, as she put it, in the delights of the flesh and acknowledged her need for male connections, physically as well as psychologically. The preferred profile for the other gender was open, cerebral men with strong libidos who could match her considerable needs. She drew the line when it came to married men, but she had strayed from time to time. Admittedly, she was exquisitely vulnerable to seduction under certain circumstances, but she had for the last few years avoided such situations and temptations with men who were legally committed to others.
Despite a gypsy tendency to wander, she did not consider it a weakness on her part, but rather a belief that she was an alpha female and could pick and choose. What she abhorred was hurting anyone by her behavior. Above all, she knew the rules of the game and could be counted on for complete discretion, which meant that she also protected her own reputation, and did not under any circumstances fraternize in her police circles. She could be ruthless when hit on by any of her colleagues, most of whom were macho types who postured and bragged about their sexual prowess.
Fiona knew all the put-downs, and those who had made the clumsy attempt were stung by her wrath and would never again attempt to hit on her. The swinging-dick syndrome came with the territory, and generous helpings of testosterone were important attributes to her male colleagues. She was careful not to present herself as the castrating white princess, and on most occasions, she was able to banter away all but the subtlest moves.
With her serious lovers, on the other hand, she preferred to engage in absolute sexual transparency with no boundaries. She was honorable in her personal commitments and would never allow herself to be disloyal.
On this score, Larry Porter and she were in perfect synchronization. Larry had admitted that his soon-to-be-ex wife was, at least in his estimation, sexually frigid, although he adhered to a privately held belief that there were some successful male-female relationships that just didn't click in a sexual way. It was, he told Fiona, not to be confused with dysfunction, merely an absence of that mysterious sexual magnetism. Of course, sexual congress, while a necessity with a lover, was merely one aspect in a relationship. Intelligence, kindness, loyalty, romance, genuine affection, transparency, and consideration were essential. Deeply felt love was always a bonus. So far it had eluded her.
Larry was a few years her senior, in his mid-forties, and had risen quickly to assistant managing editor of the Washington Post. Fiona had met him when she questioned a reporter's story on gender and race, which talked about white women as a victimized minority in the mostly black police force.
She had angrily disagreed with the premise and had arranged through other friends at the Post to meet Larry for a drink and offer a more penetrating and accurate analysis, accusing the reporter of missing the subtle distinctions. Her contention was that class was more of an issue than racial discrimination, which was a common misconception that lumped together everyone in the department as uneducated blue-collar types.
As it turned out, they had wandered off the subject quickly and discovered a powerful attraction between them. One thing led to another, and soon they were in the throes of a passionate physical relationship.
Because she considered it too early to contemplate, she discouraged any talk of permanence, although she admitted to herself that she was seriously considering the possibility. So far, he had not asked or even hinted at marriage, nor was she ready for such a commitment. It had been going on for more than five months, and had reached a point where they were considering his moving in with her after his divorce had become final. His wife was an administrative assistant on Capitol Hill for an Oklahoma congressman, a committed career woman. Luckily, they had postponed having children, which had allowed them a mostly problem-free, somewhat amicable divorce.
In the meantime, he had continued to keep his studio apartment in Southwest Washington, although he was spending less and less time there.
Larry was tall and had maintained his body by lifting weights, playing squash and long morning jogs on which Fiona occasionally joined him. Although his black curly hair was peppered with gray, he had the general appearance of a man ten years younger.
Often when they slept together after the heavy lovemaking phase was over, she would awake in the wee hours and prod him awake as well. The purpose was to engage him in meaningful conversation, especially when confronted with a problem that would benefit by his advice and counsel. He did the same. Both found the other's advice wise and helpful.
Since they were both opinionated and argumentative, they often disagreed, especially in the area of media manipulation and politics. She considered herself, with good reason, an expert on the psyche of politicians and the general hypocrisy of that class, and she characterized his views, which were down the line very left of center, as na?ve and wrongheaded. Although a committed legacy Democrat, she was a cherry picker on policy and often sided with libertarian notions. Nevertheless, both loved the combat, and their nocturnal conversations often became long and heated disagreements. In the end, of course, they smoothed all differences in the usual way.
It was coincidental that she was involved in a case that had mushroomed into a giant and accelerating media event in which his paper was the leading instigator. She was careful in their discussions of the case not to go beyond the bounds of police confidentiality and propriety, and she was certain he was constrained as well in terms of specifics. But he was not at all bashful in championing theories about the death of Adam Burns.
Larry was, after all, in the information business, and a key player in his paper's policy, especially on the issues raised by the case. Their paths had crossed in this way before, although their agendas were wildly different and, in some ways, conflicting.
He had acknowledged that he was awake with a hoarse grunt. Earlier, he had remarked that the idea that administration loyalists might have wasted Burns was a stretch.
"What is the prevailing thinking of your colleagues at the paper?" she asked with an air of casual innocence.
"Most think it unlikely that the government was involved."
"Then why hint at it?"
Some of the paper's stories had implied that there were those who thought that Burns' death was associated with his anti-Presidential diatribes.
"Because it can't be ignored. We're in the business of telling all sides."
"Despite your biases?"
"Come on, baby," he chided her. "Forget that old chestnut. Okay, our editorial policy favors the Administration, but our brief is to tell it like it is. Some people think it was a government hit. We report it as part of the mix."
"And you, Larry, what do you think?"
He paused, raised himself on one elbow, met her gaze, and chuckled.
"Personally, I think it's all bullshit. The President would have to be crazy to have authorized or even consented by silence to do such a thing. It would be madness."
"So why even mention it and stir the pot?" Fiona asked.
"Baby, that's our business, to tell all sides. Some people think it, and if they think it, it should be reported that they think it." He patted her cheek. "What do you think?"
"In my business, we speculate, theorize, investigate, look for clues, for evidence. We don't go off half-cocked."
"And you think we go off half-cocked?" Suddenly, he reached for her hand and moved it on his penis. "Half-cocked won't cut it."
She kept her hand there while he hardened.
"You play around with it, titillate the public, attribute anonymous sources, and encourage conspiracy theories, deliberately mislead."
"Now, now, Fi," he said, removing her hand. "Are you joining the ranks of the media bashers?"
"Joining? I'm a charter member. The Post is playing the where-there's-smoke-there's-fire game. Read your daily fare, and you imply that persons within or loyalists without might have offed your columnist because he was doing the nasty on the President. Worse, you say it's bullshit."
"Right. That's my private opinion. So what? We are in the where-there's-smoke-there's-fire business. We don't moralize like the government hotshots. We tell it as people see it."
"You deliberately stoke the fire, get them eyeballs—that's your bag."
Suddenly, she discovered the conversation was kindling her anger. She had always felt animosity for the press. They had pretty well destroyed her father's career. In Washington, they could play the role of the grim reaper at will.
"Let's not go there, Fi," Larry said, turning away. "Besides, I need my sleep."
"Me, too," Fiona sighed, trying to reign in her growing animosity. They were, after all, at different ends of the information spectrum. Or were they? For a brief moment, she wondered if she was developing an attitude problem, usually the first faint harbinger of a relationship crash. She turned away from him and tried to will herself to sleep.