Even in his silk paisley robe and matching pajamas and ascot, Farber struck Fiona as a sleazeball. He had opened the door of his townhouse on Capitol Hill himself, as if he were expecting them. It was promptly seven A.M. "Come in, officers," Farber said, smiling broadly. "Right on time." Fiona showed him the folded warrant. He brushed it away with a pudgy hand. "No need. My house is yours." "We'll do the office later," Fiona said. "I have a summer home in Nantucket," Farber said, continuing to smile. "When will you do that?" Fiona had often seen bravado mask anxiety. His attitude did not foreclose on the possibility of finding it. Farber's house was well furnished. He apparently had a passion for soft leathers and ultrasuede. Most of the furniture and backgrounds were done in these materials. On the walls were a collection of etchings depicting early days in Washington. "Shall I show you around?" Farber asked. "That isn't necessary," Charleen said. "It's a big item," Farber taunted. "You shouldn't have much trouble spotting it." He followed them as they moved through the house, opening drawers and closets, all of them knowing that it was an exercise in futility.
What do You think about The Witch Of Watergate (1992)?
