by Warren Adler
"He was ... what's that word ... oblique. Yeah oblique." the Eggplant said." Could have been worse. Told me he was acting more as an advisor than a carping critic. Went into this song and dance about the respect he harbors for the police." The Eggplant pronounced it 'Poh-Lease' in a mocking tone. "Says he might have a lot more confidence in the outcome of his mother's case if a more experienced detective was teamed with FitzGerald here."
"That's the way it's done," Fiona said. "Show displeasure. Make your wishes known. Leave the dirty work to others."
"Well?" the Eggplant said fixing his gaze on Gail.
Gail looked at Fiona, then at the Eggplant.
"Are you giving me the option, Chief?"
He nodded. Fiona knew that it was truly the unstated, but powerful, racial bond at work here. The Eggplant, however, knew how to operate on the razor's edge of intimidation. He understood, just as Shipley understood, the subtle value of "oblique."
"What do you think Fi?" Gail asked.
"You know my opinion, Gail. I want you with me," It was, of course, the expected and sincere answer. "But I still think you could do with some counseling."
"Good advice," the Eggplant said. He had often recommended such a course of action for people under his command. Job pressure in police work was far more intense and rough on the psyche than the pay might suggest.
"I'll do that Chief."
"Only you can be the judge of your own sense ... of balance." Fiona grappled with her own concept of evasion. She deliberately avoided the race issue, which had obviously driven Gail off the track.
"Are you really telling me it's my decision, Chief?" Gail asked. "You could be sticking your neck out."
"I've done that often enough. Besides, until someone says otherwise, I'm still Captain of Homicide and, aside from some stupid actions and even stupider remarks, I'm not going to toss you in the crapper. Not yet." He pointed a finger at her." But this I'll tell you Prentiss. You are on one short leash."
Gail grew pensive for a few moments as they both watched her. Fiona clearly understood the challenge that faced her. And the Eggplant. And every member of their race in every occupation, every situation. But it was particularly evident in police work in any major city with a large black population. It was an endless battle with no truce in sight. Good guy blacks against bad guy blacks. In the District of Columbia that was the statistical reality.
For her part, Fiona felt no ethnic allegiance. She'd just as easily put a collar on a white Irish American woman as a black person of any gender, it was a non-issue. Bad was bad. Crime was crime. Evil was evil. There was a single standard. Without such indifference to race, gender, and what used to be called creed, it was impossible to do the job.
"It's the old baggage," Gail sighed.
Along with the Eggplant, she was intellectually aware of her situation, but emotionally torn, fighting the eternal battle between pride and guilt.
"It's probably the thing that brought me into this business in the first place." Her eyes glazed and she turned away, sniffled, then rubbed her eyes with the back of one hand, grimacing with sudden pain. "My Dad.... "She took a deep breath to steady herself. "He said guilt was a debilitating emotion that could destroy one's self esteem. He fought it all his life." She was silent for a long moment. "I'm not a quitter. I want to stay on this one, Chief. I won't you let you down. Let me prove it to you. And I promise I'll seek counseling."
"No more dumb moves?" the Eggplant warned, his expression grave. "The world we live in is the world we live in. Capeesh?"
"Capeesh," Gail whispered.
The Eggplant stood up.
"One more screw up and this ladies' team gets busted." he said gruffly, in a lame attempt to hide his own emotional state. Then he turned and left the cubicle.
Fiona felt a lump rise in her throat.
"We owe him Gail," Fiona said.
"I owe him, you mean."
"No more sideshows, hear?"
Gail nodded.
Fiona dropped Gail off at her apartment and got to her own house after midnight. Too keyed up to sleep, she poured herself a couple of inches of straight scotch and tried concentrating on an old television movie, but the images made little sense and she felt slightly unmoored and lonely. She decided that the only remedy was to call Hal.
She found the number that he had given her and dialed. It was an 800 number and she had no idea where it would wind up geographically. An officious woman's voice came on after three rings. The voice made no announcement of whose number had been called.
"Mr. Perry please," she said.
"Who is calling please?"
"Fiona FitzGerald."
There was a brief pause, as if the woman was hunting for recognition of her name.
"May I take your number, Ms. FitzGerald?"
Fiona felt her anger rise.
"No. I need to speak with him now."
She wondered if she was being unreasonable. But his words rang in her mind. "Any time day or night."
"I'm sorry, Ms. FitzGerald. I'll be happy to take your number."
She started to remonstrate, then muttered a "screw you" and hung up.
"Corporate wife," she cried into the empty room as she upended her glass. "No way."
CHAPTER 11
"You look like hell, Gail," Fiona said as Gail slid in car beside her. She was wearing sunglasses, but beneath the lens Fiona could see her swollen eye.
"I was hoping you wouldn't notice," she mumbled. "It wasn't exactly a restful night."
"For me as well," Fiona said. "But I think I've come up with a game plan."
"Good, Fi. You call the shots."
"You gonna be a good girl like you promised?" Fiona said, tossing a sideward glance at Gail, hoping for a smile. Gail did not oblige.
"When she is bad, she is horrid," Gail mumbled, falling into a long silence. "Don't worry Fi. I'm cool."
"You look it."
Chester Brewer was eighty-five years old and still maintained a law office in an ancient building on Connecticut Avenue that smelled of dust and stale cigar smoke.
On the walls of his outer office were faded pictures of him as a much younger man in the company of various politicians of a bygone era. There was also a yellowing framed clipping of the younger Brewer in Army uniform on which was being pinned a Silver Star by General Dwight Eisenhower.
Among the pictures was a framed diploma like certificate that attested that he had been appointed an Assistant Secretary of the Army by President Harry S. Truman in 1951. Fiona had called him at his apartment in the old Kennedy-Warren, once a fashionable residence for big government types, including Truman when he was Vice-President. It was now what was commonly called shabby genteel. The old lawyer had agreed to a meeting, but insisted that it take place at his office.
Everything about the office struck Fiona as a historic relic including his secretary, a Miss Bronson, according to the wooden nameplate on her desk. She was an old woman with steel gray hair and sprouts along her chin. She wore glasses with thick coke bottle lenses. Fiona noted that she still used an old fashioned IBM Electric. The office seemed not to have never entered the electronic age. There was no sign of anything even remotely modern. Even the telephone was a black dial type. She wondered if it was still operative.
"We only come here once a week," Miss Bronson said. "There aren't clients anymore. Unfortunately.... "she looked at her watch. "he can get weird this time of day."
"Why does he come in?"
"Guess it makes him feel that he's still alive. Me, too, I suppose. I'm his chief cook and bottle washer. As you know the Kennedy-Warren is a couple of blocks down the street. It's a good excuse for a walk."
"You live there, too?" Fiona asked.
"In sin," the woman chuckled. "His wife died thirty years ago. I'm what the kids call his significant other." She winked. "I prefer mistress."
Chester Brewer, Counselor at Law, received them from behind a large shiny walnut desk that was completely devoid of an
y paperwork. Behind him was a battery of dusty diplomas attesting to his credentials for practice and his various degrees, including those from Harvard College and Harvard Law School where, according to the diplomas, he was a Doctor of Jurisprudence.
He was a man with a large wrinkled face, a bald pate and, eyes that seemed almost too faded for sight. He did not stand up to greet them, but held out a wizened hand which felt cold to the touch, although the squeeze was firm and the pump oddly vigorous.
He went through what seemed like an elaborate, and endless, resume of his career, as if it was necessary to prove that he was still credible as a working lawyer. He informed them about his more than sixty years in practice, except for brief jaunts in Federal Service. He catalogued an endless array of committees on which he had served and listed his most important clients, many of whom had long ago either died or, as corporations, had been merged out of business.
In deference to his extreme age, Fiona and Gail listened to the outer limits of their patience until finally Fiona was compelled to interrupt. She took the direct route trying to foreclose on any detours by the old man.
"We're here about Mrs. Shipley, Mr. Brewer. Her behests..."
"Wonderful lady, wonderful. What a terrible tragedy. Used to throw these great balls in her home. Did you know she was once Washington's most important..."
"Are you the executor of her estate?" Gail interrupted.
"I am ... I was..." He grew thoughtful for a moment. "I drew up the papers years ago. It's now in the bank's hands. Riggs bank. Trust Department. It was my decision, of course." He grew silent for a long time as if he were reviewing events inside his head. "Generous woman. Never had to ask her more than once. I had always believed Deb would outlive me. Terrible tragedy. Did you know...?"
"Was there any reason why she did not appoint her only son as executor?"
"Reason? He's the beneficiary of a trust. Very well provided for. Would do anything for that boy, William Shipley, Junior. Junior, yes. Anything at all. Nothing stopped her. That boy will be President some day, she told me ad infinitum. She would see to that. Father was a war hero." He chuckled and shook his head. "Missing in action. Battle of the Bulge. William Shipley. Named the boy, Junior, but I told you that. Never met the man but he was quite a hero they tell me. Oh yes, Mrs. Shipley I heard was not very fond of her son's actress wife, though. Pretty woman. Seen her movies. I used to do some acting myself. Amateur. I was pretty good in my day. Cut a fine figure. Did you know....?"
"Did Mrs. Shipley tell you" Fiona asked. "that she was no very fond of Madeline Newton?"
"Two strong women, met head on. Billy was the executor, once. That was before he married that woman. She had me redraw the will when they married. Made Billy sign a waiver not to challenge the estate. Wasn't gonna let that lady have one wit of her possessions."
"You mean William will get nothing."
"He doesn't need anything. And his wife is rich as Croesus. People say with that actress behind him there's no stopping him. Did you know I met every President since Herbert Hoover. Met him as a child. Not him. Me." His enthusiasm seemed to fizzle for a moment, as if he were groping to find his place again. "That's what old Deb wanted for him when she was running the show." He rubbed his chin and shook his head. "Never sell old Deb short. Woman could make you do things, you never thought.... "He shook his head again. "Tough as nails. Gets what she wants in the end, though. I remember...."
"Who will be her heirs?"
"Heirs. Oh yes. Those two who stuck it out with her all these years."
"Roy Parker and Gloria Carpenter."
"Yes. Those names. Of course Billy gets the heirlooms if he wants them."
Brewer smiled strangely. Fiona had the impression that the old man was playing with them, enjoying the attention.
"They get the house, as well?" Gail asked. "Her two servants."
"Everything. That's what she said. Give them everything down the middle. That's what she signed. I told her that the day Deb was found. Mostly for confirmation."
"Told who?"
"The Negro woman."
"Gloria Carpenter?"
"Yes, that's her. Deb made promises. She just wanted to be sure there were no changes."
"And were there?"
The old man chuckled. The chuckle turned into a cackle, which then turned into a guffaw. His eyes teared from the effort. He took out a wrinkled handkerchief wiped his eyes and blew his nose.
"Did I say something funny?" Fiona asked. His action was incongruous, as if they didn't connect to his remarks.
"Yes," the old man said, bursting into laughter again.
Fiona and Gail looked at each other, puzzled.
"Old Deb," the old man said. "She was a rascal at heart."
"Rascal?" Fiona said, more puzzled than ever. "I'm afraid you'll have to explain yourself."
"Me to know. You to find out."
He was playing with them, Fiona decided. Or was suffering from the beginning stages of dementia.
"Mr. Brewer," Fiona said, confused and serious. "We're investigating Mrs. Shipley's brutal murder and rape."
"Rape? That's a good one. Deb never even looked at another man. I would have given anything.... "Suddenly, he started to giggle.
At that moment, Miss Bronson limped in holding a glass of water in a saucer and a vial of pills.
"Time for your medicine, Chester."
She came around the desk, handed him the glass, which shook precariously in his fingers, then gave him a number of pills one at a time. He put them in his mouth and washed them down with the water.
"Has he been going silly on you?" Miss Bronson asked.
Fiona shrugged.
"Happens this time of the day. Actually we only come in an hour or two. You're the first visitors he's had in months. Sorry about Mrs. Shipley. She was a pain, but very loyal to Chester. When he had his heart attack.... well ... she was very generous. Don't know what we would have done."
After he had taken his pills, Mr. Brewer leaned back in his chair.
"Where were we?" he asked.
"We were talking about Mrs. Shipley's behest's, Mr. Brewer?"
"I'm sorry. I can't say. There's client attorney privileges here,"
It seemed like an odd statement, since he had been very forthcoming earlier.
"What about the antiques, the art work?" Fiona asked.
"Have you people a warrant?"
"A warrant? We're not doing a search. This is only an interview."
"I don't give interviews," Mr. Brewer said.
CHAPTER 12
After the confusing experience with Chester Brewer, Gail and Fiona drove to Mrs. Shipley's residence--ex-residence. Gloria Carpenter, looking melancholy and visibly upset, let them in. She was wearing an apron and had been vacuuming the front hall. Considering the recent tragic event, the act seemed odd, although, in the light of what they had been hinted about Mrs. Shipley's behest, it seemed strangely appropriate.
"We need to talk," Fiona said.
Gloria grudgingly shrugged her consent, but as Fiona and Gail moved toward the great room, Gloria waylaid them.
"Not there. In the kitchen."
They followed her into the kitchen where she sat down at the kitchen table and motioned them to sit opposite her. She seemed far more in command of herself than at their last discussion. Angry, but far more confidant.
"Where is Roy?" Fiona asked.
"He does the food shopping," Gloria said, as if the house was still operating under Mrs. Shipley's routine. Offering no further explanation, she directed her gaze at Gail.
"You had no business bringing Lionel into it," she said with contempt. "He is not involved in this."
"He attacked me, Gloria," Gail said, taking off her glasses to reveal her swollen eye.
"Attacked you? He's lying in the hospital with a broken shoulder."
"I'm sorry about that Gloria. But he was quite violent. I had to protect myself."
"Did Lionel say that Officer Prent
iss moved first?" Fiona asked.
"What difference would that make? You all stick together. And we have no video to prove otherwise."
"Gloria," Gail said. The confrontation seemed to have energized her. "Lionel has a history of violence. He's been in and out of prison. And he's a known alcoholic and drug abuser."
"And he was doing just fine," Gloria said huffily. "Until you came along."
"That's debatable," Gail said flatly. She was in a vulnerable position on this score, Fiona thought, having seduced Lionel into a drunken state.
"Are you suggesting that he was no longer abusing substances, alcohol included?" Fiona asked.
"He was trying," Gloria said. "I suppose you went after him because someone told you that he had once worked for Madame and he had been fired. Well, for your information, I was the one who suggested to Madame that he be dismissed. Lionel agreed with me. He needed help. And it was Madame who paid for his rehab. Bet you didn't know that."
"Gloria," Gail snapped. "Is your brother still addicted to drugs?"
"No, he's not. He's clean."
"But still alcoholic. He was drinking yesterday."
"He told me that. You made him."
"I offered. He accepted."
"Don't you know that you never put temptation deliberately in the way of an alcoholic?" Gloria said indignantly. "Don't they teach you that in Police school?"
Fiona was surprised at the intensity of her defense of her brother.
"I had no idea he was an alcoholic." She paused looked at Fiona then confronted Gloria again. "I'm afraid your brother is a suspect, Gloria," Gail said. Fiona could see she was wound up, anxious to control the interrogation. Without an explanation, Fiona nodded her consent. "He admitted he knew the boy and his mother, that he hung out in the same neighborhood. I'm not saying he was the one who coerced Martine. But I am saying he was connected in some way to the boy and his mother. In our work, we can't ignore these little coincidences."
"My brother would never do such a thing," Gloria cried. "Never. You people.... "She shook her head. "And what you're trying to do to Roy. It's a disgrace."
"Lionel told me," Gail said, ignoring her outburst. "That you expected a substantial behest from Mrs. Shipley. Lionel seemed elated by that prospect as if he expected to share your largesse."
