Death of a Washington Madame

by Warren Adler

  "I be afraid. Yeah."

  "Of course he would," Mrs.James said.

  "We'll see to it that no harm will come to your Grandmother or your mother," Gail said.

  The boy looked up dully and shook his head.

  "He knows you can't do that," Mrs. James said. "He may be a slow learner. But he's no fool." She turned to Martine.

  "Martine, baby," she said. "You don't worry about me or your Mama. You gotta worry about yourself. If you know the man, now you tell these lady policeman." She looked up at Gail. "How's it gonna help him?"

  "He's a juvenile," Fiona explained. "It's not like they'd be putting him away forever. There's therapy. Rehab. Maybe when he's twenty-one, if he improves.... "Fiona felt the hollowness of her explanation. Whatever happened, Fiona knew, the present system would never save Martine. One day it might release him, but it would never save him. He was doomed and Fiona knew it. Gail knew it as well. But for Mrs.James, it was a shred of hope, however unlikely and impossible.

  "Have you understood me, Martine?" Gail asked.

  "Ah guess," the boy replied after a long pause.

  "Okay then," Gail said. "Now listen good. What time that Wednesday night did that man drive by?"

  The boy shrugged and shook his head.

  "Were there any witnesses to this transaction?"

  "Witnesses?"

  "People who might have seen you and the man talking," Gail prodded.

  He frowned, thought about it for a long moment, then shook his head. Witnesses or not, Fiona knew that it was highly unlikely that anyone who might have seen the exchange would step forward.

  "Do you think you would recognize the man if you saw him again?" Gail asked.

  Martine barely reacted, his eyes drifting back and forth from his comic book.

  "By his voice maybe?" his grandmother asked.

  "If I heered it again. Maybe."

  "It's important, baby," his grandmother said, looking at Gail, who studied her face for a long moment.

  "We'll be right back."

  Gail knocked at the door and a uniformed guard let them out of the room.

  "Hard to believe, isn't it?" the guard, a young Hispanic man said. "A kid that age to do what he did."

  Fiona shrugged and sighed. The interview had depressed her. She turned to Gail.

  "Think we got something Gail?" she asked. Fiona had her doubts. But it was something she knew Gail had to follow up.

  "It certainly fits," Gail said with a faint shrugging movement of her shoulders, betraying her hopefulness.

  "I'll tell the Chief."

  While she was gone, Fiona called the Eggplant. She explained what was happening, recounting their interviews with Brewer, Gloria, Lionel and the boy.

  "Busy little beavers," the Eggplant said. Fiona was keenly aware of the double entendre. She chalked it up to a Freudian slip and let it pass. "I sure hope you can bust it fast."

  "Any more static from on high?"

  "Not yet."

  "Prentiss has glommed on to this one, Chief."

  "Glommed?"

  "I mean she's really focused."

  "Let us pray."

  She caught his ominous sarcasm and knew what it meant. The Governor and his lady would not be pleased with his decision to keep Gail on the case. And he might be having second thoughts.

  "What's your take on it FitzGerald?"

  "The theory has logic. We have a strong motive. A possible perp with a bad history. And a connection. There's some holes, but we'll know soon enough."

  She hung up, just as Lionel Carpenter, looking gray faced and none too happy in the custody of Gail and two uniforms was being wheeled toward her.

  "Tell this crazy woman that this is stupid," Lionel said to Fiona.

  "You called the shot, Lionel," Gail said.

  "I'm in pain here," he muttered, avoiding a relevant response.

  A guard unlocked the door to Martine's room.

  "You want the old lady to stay?" the guard asked. "We gave her an hour and its up."

  "It's okay," Fiona said. "Let her stay."

  Gail, who seemed on the verge of protest, let it go.

  "You two can wait outside," she told the guards who had accompanied them. Then she moved the wheelchair into the room. When they arrived Fiona sensed an immediate air of palpable tension. Lionel looked extremely uncomfortable and sickly. His skin became oily with perspiration. Fiona noted that Martine moved closer to the wall.

  "What's she doing here?" Lionel asked, looking at Mrs. James.

  Mrs. James looked at him, her eyes glaring, but said nothing.

  "This don't look good," Lionel mumbled. "And I feel bad."

  Martine had moved so that his back leaned against the wall. He looked frightened.

  "You recognize this man, Martine?" Gail asked.

  "He knows him, don't you Martine?" Mrs. James blurted, turning to face Lionel. "What'd you do to my girl, Lionel?"

  "What she talkin' about?" Lionel sneered.

  "Tell 'em Lionel what you done to Martine's Mama," the woman said, her eyes flashing with hatred.

  "This is a crazy woman. I don't want no part of this," Lionel said. He tried to reach for the chair's wheels but was defeated by the pain of the effort. "Get me out of here."

  "Gave her first crack," the woman said. "That's what he did."

  "I want a lawyer here," Lionel protested. He looked at Mrs. James. "Cause your daughter turns tricks for hits and that got nothin' to do with me."

  "This isn't the issue here," Gail said coldly. "Your time allotment is up, Mrs. James, and I'd appreciate if you left."

  "Good idea," Lionel mumbled.

  Through this exchange, Martine had said nothing, continuing to press himself against the wall, looking pitiful and scared.

  "I got a right to stay," Mrs. James protested.

  "No scenes, Mrs. James," Gail said. "I could have you forcibly removed."

  "We'd appreciate if you'd leave quietly, Mrs. James," Fiona said.

  "I ain't goin'," Mrs. James said, determined, seeming to root herself into the chair.

  "I'll have to call the guards, Mrs. James," Gail said.

  "Good idea," Lionel said.

  Gail went to the door and knocked. The two guards that had accompanied her and the guard that was posted in front of Martine's room came in.

  "Please, Mrs. James," Fiona said. "Just wait outside. We'll let you be with Martine again after we finish here."

  "She's already had her time," the guard who was assigned to the room muttered.

  "We'll then we'll give her more time," Fiona said with authority, pulling rank.

  "Your responsibility then," the guard grumbled.

  "Now please, Mrs. James," Fiona said. "You wouldn't want a scene in front of your grandchild, would you?"

  The woman looked toward the frightened Martine.

  "You tell them the truth Martine," she said, getting up with effort. One of the guards grabbed her arm.

  "Leave her alone," Fiona ordered. Mrs. James nodded her thanks, then moved toward the door.

  "I'll be just outside Martine. Hear?"

  She tossed Lionel a look of scorn and hatred and mumbled something under her breath.

  "Up yours too Mama," Lionel sneered.

  The guard held open the door and the woman left the room with her dignity intact. Fiona was relieved. The guards filed out of the room and closed the door behind them.

  "She's a lying bitch," Lionel said, when they had gone. "I didn't turn her girl, his no good mama. She was no damned good to begin with. Wouldn't have no clue to who was this little dumbasses' Daddy. Gotta blame someone."

  "Martine," Gail said, ignoring his outburst. "Now I want you to listen carefully. Don't be afraid. Take a good look at this man."

  "Yeah," Lionel said, glaring at the boy. "You take a good look, you murderin' little motha."

  "Martine," Gail said sharply. "Is this the man who was in that car on the Wednesday night in question, the man who gave you the fi
ve hundred dollars and told you to kill Mrs. Shipley on Thursday night?"

  The boy's eyes seemed to bug out of his head. His lips trembled.

  "Martine," Gail said. "Is this the man?"

  "This is bullsheet," Lionel cried. "He knows I ain't him."

  "Martine," Gail pressed. "Yes or no."

  A pall of silence and expectation descended on the room, as if all the people in it were suddenly frozen into a permanent tableaux."

  "Say something, dammit," Gail cried. "Is he or isn't he?"

  The boy seemed to suck in a deep breath, as if he were displacing all the air in the room.

  "That him," he said. "He the one."

  CHAPTER 14

  Fiona, who was driving, called the Eggplant on the car phone and filled him in.

  "A hundred percent? No doubts?"

  "He was scared, but the ID seems authentic."

  "Will it hold up?"

  "That's another issue."

  "And the man?"

  "Went ballistic. Swears the kid's a liar and worse."

  "Yeah sure." The phone went silent for a long moment. She could hear the Eggplant's breathing. "You both buy it."

  Fiona looked toward Gail, who had heard the comment and nodded.

  "We buy it, Chief."

  He acknowledged their reaction without comment and called a meeting in his office first thing in the morning.

  "Well you can be proud of yourself, Gail," Fiona said after the Eggplant had hung up. The events seemed a clear demonstration that Gail had regained her equilibrium and was making objective judgments.

  "I think proud is stretching it, Fi," Gail said. She was resting her head against the front seat, her eyes closed.

  "Okay. How about satisfied?"

  "It'll have to do.... for now."

  As Fiona drove, Gail grew silent and seemed to be dozing. In their anxiety to end the case, they had taken a bit of poetic license. It was still possible that Lionel's identification, considering Martine's vulnerability as a confessed killer and a juvenile would have less currency than if it had come from an unblemished source. Then there was the open issue of the five hundred dollars and the car and the added fact of the grandmother's accusation that it was Lionel who turned Martine's mother to crack.

  Whatever the outcome, they both knew that Martine's fate was out of their hands, with the probability that he would be institutionalized, undergo state sponsored therapy and be released back into society when he was twenty-one or before. Based on her experience and statistics, Martine could look forward to a stunted life, if he lived, most of which she reckoned would be spent incarcerated.

  Fiona knew it was futile to contemplate either Martine or Lionel's fate. As a homicide detective, her task was, through objective investigation, to discover the perpetrator and present the evidence and the facts that led to that conclusion to the prosecutors. This textbook role, unfortunately, was always at war with the idea of justice.

  In her mind, she tried to weigh the acceptance of Martine's identification of Lionel under the same conditions as the portrayal of lady justice, blindfolded and holding her scales. The scales seemed evenly weighted, but the blindfold prevented any true reading of the calibration.

  It was both logical and, considering the boy's crime, mental condition and general reliability, suspect. Yet in her heart, which was the wrong place for her desire to be, she wanted Martine's identification to stand.

  Fiona dropped Gail off in front of her apartment building and headed for her house.

  What she wanted most of all was to suspend all thinking, give her problems a sabbatical for the night and slip mindless and dreamless into a long sleep.

  But her answering machine intruded. Aside from a message from Daisy, "...nothing of importance. Just chat chat. I can tell you who's sleeping with whom ... or is it who." there was one from Hal Perry, not entirely unexpected.

  "Sorry about last night, Fi," his voice said. "I've since corrected the situation. Any time night or day. I promise."

  It didn't exactly soften the hurt. She would never be the priority he said she was or could be in his life. Oh the niche was waiting for her, but it was a niche he would fashion, one more comfortable for himself, despite his protestations to the contrary, than for her. Was she being unreasonable? She was suddenly agitated; sorry she had listened to his message.

  Finally, after wrestling with sleeplessness for more than an hour, she poured herself half a tumbler of scotch and drank it down in one long gulp, then turned on the television to watch an old black and white movie.

  But her mind spun too fast for her to find the concentration to hook into the characters or the plot. When she became aware that it was morning, she wasn't sure if she had slept. The set was still on; her head was spinning and her mood somber and irritable.

  "I'm comfortable with it," Gail said as they headed downtown." I think."

  "Think? As in hope," Fiona croaked. Gail, who was driving, threw her a sidelong glance.

  "You look like hell," Gail said.

  "I don't need this," Fiona mumbled, leaning her head against the backrest and closing her eyes against the sunlight's irritation.

  "I had second thoughts in the wee hours, Fi," Gail said.

  "Wee? As in desperate hours." Fiona muttered. "That is the time frame for second thoughts."

  "You, too?" Gail asked.

  "On a variety of topics."

  "I was tempted to call, but I decided against it."

  Fiona chuckled.

  "As Freud said it's all about work and love. In my desperate hours, these were the principal topics. The work part was all about truth and consequences."

  "Martine's truth and Lionel's consequences."

  Fiona nodded.

  "I rooted for Martine's truth," Gail said.

  "So did I. But Lionel's consequences has me concerned."

  "Me, too." Gail said, biting her lip.

  "Therefore our conversation in the wee hours would have achieved no denouement and, frankly, I don't think you'd have been very helpful with the love part either."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You don't playa da game, Gail."

  "Not your way, Fi."

  "Such a waste of womanhood," Fiona sighed.

  "Men are a complication I can do without," Gail said. From experience, Fiona knew, she could expect little solace or insight from Gail on the subject of the opposite sex. Gail's perspective had been influenced by a traumatic experience when she was a child. She had been raped and had witnessed her sister's murder at the hands of the rapist. So far, her attempts at relationships had ended badly, a result that could define Fiona's as well.

  Except that Fiona loved men, loved the sexual and romantic interplay, perhaps even the angst of the entanglements, although embedded deeply in her psyche was her mother's admonitions about sin. Perhaps, she had often thought, she was addicted to the attraction and challenge of strong men, manly men, the kind other men referred to as swinging dicks, men of power and influence. Men like Hal Perry. Always such relationships ended in a standoff, with her being obsessed with the fear of her own submission.

  "I wish I could," Fiona sighed, opening her eyes to the sunlight, then closing them again in response to the sudden brightness.

  "Could what?"

  "Do without men."

  "It's easy when you get the hang of it," Gail said.

  "Don't talk dirty, Gail."

  "You're impossible, Fi," Gail shrugged, chuckling lightly.

  "I have needs, overwhelming needs. My womanly parts cry out in the night."

  "Must make a big racket," Gail said, laughing now. "Like howling cats."

  "Very funny," Fiona said, feeling better for the banter.

  They arrived at the door of the Eggplant's office at exactly ten. The door was closed and they heard him on the phone. It was more than fifteen minutes before he opened it and invited them in. He was in a surprisingly good mood.

  "You did good, ladies. You did good," the Eggpl
ant said when they had settled around his conference table.

  "If it holds up," Gail said cutting a knowing glance at Fiona.

  "After you told me," the Eggplant said. "I called the Governor and filled him in."

  "And?" Fiona asked.

  "He sounded upset, but he conceded that Lionel was a good bet, although he was worried about Lionel's sister's reaction. He promised to call her. Wasn't something he wanted her to hear from the media."

  "Have they got it already?" Gail asked. Neither of them apparently had read the papers or turned on the TV news.

  "They usually get it before we give it."

  "How come?" Fiona asked.

  "The guards probably. Always on the lookout for a quick buck."

  "Did you tell the governor that it was Gail's leadership and persistence that got the ident?" Fiona asked with a sidelong look at Gail.

  "Yes I did," the Eggplant said.

  "Hope we restored his faith in the Washington cops," Fiona said.

  "I wouldn't go that far," the Eggplant said, sliding a panatela from his jacket pocket and tapping it on the table.

  "But he did say it was a good bet?" Gail said.

  "He told me Lionel was always trash, a thorn in Gloria's side. I did some checking on my own. He's got a rap sheet as long as your arm and has served time. A bad apple."

  "There's still the matter of the money and the car," Gail said.

  "Fact is," Fiona pointed out, growing slightly more optimistic. "He did know the routine of the house and was pretty specific about the time of the ... the assignment."

  "Others knew that, too," Gail said. Her "second thoughts" were finding their voice.

  "Did he tell you about Gloria's reaction?" Fiona asked, suddenly remembering the picture in her room of the three siblings. "It had to be an awful blow."

  "He said he'd call. There was no need for him to report to us on that conversation. We can assume, though, that she'll be able to afford a heavy duty lawyer for her brother," the Eggplant said.

  At that moment, the telephone rang. The Eggplant picked it up. He listened then put his hand over the mouthpiece.

  "The star," he sighed. "Take ten."

  Fiona and Gail moved back to the squad room.

  "It is a good bet, Gail," Fiona said.

  "What a sad bunch..." Gail began, as if the mention of Madeline had set her off again.