by Warren Adler
They had brought Martine to a depressing private room with mismatched chairs and battered walls that seemed literally stained with misery and tears. Martine looked more confident than he did at the hospital, cocky in fact, as if he had gained emotional heft from exposure to other juvenile offenders for having "done" a white lady and humiliated her with the macho power of his alleged manliness.
"These people are here to talk to you about what you told them the other day, Martine," the matron said. She was a big woman with a surly manner and a too-red lipstick that made her lips look swollen and bloodied.
Fiona knew that the woman's presence would not be helpful to her mission. Unfortunately, by protocol and procedure, she was trapped into accepting it. With an effort of will she masked her antagonism. She wasn't ready to undermine the non-threatening atmosphere required to get Martine to recant. His deliberate false identification had, at that point, less telling consequences for Lionel, but they did not want to foreclose on the opportunity of a more accurate identification of the real culprit, when and if, such a confrontation would take place.
"Martine," Gail began when they were all seated. "You told us that the man who gave you the five hundred dollars was Lionel Carpenter. Am I correct?"
Martine avoided their eyes, fidgeted and kicked the chair with the heels of his shoes.
"Yeah. Was Lionel like I told you," Martine said, his eyes looking everywhere but at the people in the room.
"Are you absolutely sure of that Martine?" Gail asked, treading softly.
"I tole you," Martine said. "It were Lionel."
"Think hard," Gail reiterated.
"It were Lionel," the boy repeated, feigning boredom and impatience.
"He told you that," the matron interjected. Gail shot her a look of rebuke and Fiona could tell that she was fighting the desire to erupt.
"We know better, Martine," Gail said, her expression changing, her demeanor now fierce and aggressive. "You're a liar."
"I tole you," Martine replied with a sneer.
"You told us a lie," Gail said. "And you know it's a lie, Martine. Because we have learned that Lionel Carpenter wasn't anywhere near where you were that night."
Martine exchanged glances with the matron who took it as a signal for a protective remark.
"We'd prefer a less belligerent attitude, officer."
"This child is a murderer, a rapist and a liar," Gail exploded, turning her anger on the matron. "He has implicated an innocent man." Before the matron could reply, she directed her gaze back to Martine. "Right Martine?"
Martine's glance fluttered around the room.
"Right Martine?" Gail said, raising her voice, signaling with her hand for the matron to keep quiet.
"God dammit boy look at me."
Martine swallowed hard and for a brief moment their eyes met, then he turned away.
"Now Lionel Carpenter has cause to be very upset with you.... your mother and your grandmother."
"Now wait a minute..." the matron said.
"I'm not addressing you, woman," Gail said angrily. "I would advise you not to interfere in homicide business." The matron started to say something, then seemed to sink back in an angry funk.
Gail turned back to Martine.
"Would you rather we get that white man in here to ask you these questions?"
She meant Roy, of course. The intimidation was blatant, but Fiona could see that Gail was determined to extract her revenge for his manipulation of her.
"Would you?" she pressed.
Martine was beginning to fidget more than before. Gail's threat had obviously impressed him.
"Maybe we should call him, Sergeant FitzGerald," Gail said with mock sincerity.
"Good idea," Fiona said, standing up.
"No." Martine began, then stopped. The Matron started to speak, but Gail's sharp glance made her swallow her words.
"It were dark," Martine said, biting his lower lip.
"Too dark to be sure, right Martine?"
He lowered his eyes and nodded.
"And his voice was also hard to recognize right?"
Martine nodded.
"People make mistakes all the time, Martine. No big deal. You just made a mistake. Isn't that right?"
He seemed relieved at Gail's sudden change to a conciliatory attitude. His eyes flickered with alertness for a moment then glazed back to indifference.
"Done," Gail said, slapping her thighs and standing up.
Without saying good-bye or looking back, she walked out of the room, Fiona following. She was silent for most of the way back to headquarters.
"He's still a victim," she muttered as she got out of the car, slamming the car door. Fiona felt it impolitic to respond. "But it's no excuse for murder and rape."
They reported the results of their interview with Martine to the Eggplant who was obviously elated.
"The star should be ecstatic," Fiona said. "Although the perp is still at liberty."
"Give the media a chance to calm down," he replied with a thin smile, reaching for the phone.
Righting wrongs had a soothing effect on Fiona, hence her tranquility and the prospect of a good night's sleep.
She could see Hal Perry's face waiting in front of her front door. She hadn't expected him until that night. Opening the door she fell into his arms.
"I thought..." she began, but he curtailed her remarks with a deep kiss.
"Caught a tailwind," he whispered when they had finished their kiss.
"Speaking of tails," she sighed, grinding her pelvis into his. They barely made it up the stairs and into bed as she tangled with his various buttons and zippers.
"This is an absolute necessity," she said, reaching for him, inserting him, resting her heels on his shoulders, rotating her body for the deepest possible merger with him.
"God, Hal."
"I know Fi. I know."
They did not cool until a second more leisurely sexual episode had transpired.
"Quite a surprise," she said, nestling in his arms, playing with his chest hairs.
"For me as well. I took a chance. You could have been up early chasing the bad guys."
"I'm sick of bad guys," she said, rising on her elbows and kissing his eyes shut.
"And I'm sick of not having you with me," he said, wasting no time getting to the heart of the matter.
"Later," she said. "Let's not spoil the day with weighty decisions."
"It has to be resolved, Fi," Hal said. There was no mistaking his air of finality. She knew that any postponement of the decision was impossible.
"I know," she said savoring the moment, letting the options settle in her mind. There was, no doubt about it, great joy and comfort in his nearness. And pleasure. The plusses were easy to catalogue. She had touched those bases many times in her thoughts. Perhaps, she told herself, she was exaggerating the negatives. Submitted to a neutral panel, she knew she would be looked at as an idiot for not taking up his offer of marriage.
Had she been less than efficient in making cogent arguments to herself? Was she using her job as an excuse, as if it were some holy calling. That same neutral panel would undoubtedly think of her presence in the job an insult to her potential. It would, of course, be the prevailing view of, not only her peers, but her present colleagues.
What is a smart, educated, advantaged, financially independent white girl doing in this black blue-collar snake pit of peril and conflict? How could she possibly explain her presence in this institution, except to say that she felt fulfillment, excitement, satisfaction, self-worth, passion and, above all, usefulness in her chosen profession. Bringing evil-doers to justice, she had decided, was no small thing among a smorgasbord of occupational choices.
"I love my work," she might cry into the valley. The returning echo might as well be: "I am in love with a gorilla" for all the sense it would make to her judges.
The choice was clear your honors ... between the dark inexplicable "that" and the easily explainable "this," meaning the job of being t
he enviable, devoted, full time wife of the magnificent Hal Perry.
They spent most of the day in bed, getting up for natural causes only. It was glorious, an island of total devotion to their own pleasures. He had not objected when she had cut off answering all phone calls, a condition that would inflame both the Eggplant if he called and Hal's worldwide support system.
"The hell with everything beyond us," Hal told her, meaning that he had probably carved out the day in his schedule for just such a purpose, which she knew was an inescapable conclusion. She detested her cynical self for thinking it.
It was this cynicism that spawned distrust of what awaited her if she consented to the marriage. The very nature of his occupation required his being programmed and scheduled minute-by-minute. At some point in the day, he would plug himself in and the machine would take off at the point where he had left it. There was no getting around it. In this fact, lay the crux of her dilemma.
At five in the afternoon he plugged himself back into the whirligig of his business life. She didn't, perhaps wanting to test the limits of her involvement in her own far less lucrative work.
She deliberately repressed any attention to what he was saying on the telephone, listening to his voice, but screening out the meaning. When he hung up, he looked at her, smiled and came forward, naked, and remarkably beautiful with little hint of aging, except the gray of his hair. He moved lightly, his penis swinging gently as he came toward her, exhibiting the quickening weight of desire as he came toward her.
How wonderful, she thought, stretching her arms to receive him. In a short time, they were ready for yet another imaginative coupling. There was no position known to man or woman that they had not tried.
"We're going to dinner at Mark Fry's home," he announced, getting out of bed. He was an Under Secretary of Defense who Fiona had met on the social circuit, probably at Daisy's house. Hal had mentioned him in passing as a classmate at West Point, implying that he was important from a business standpoint as well.
He hadn't asked if she wanted to go, but had assumed her compliance. But she quickly told herself that it was a perfectly appropriate acceptance. Hadn't she made plans for social evenings without his permission? She was being too sensitive on this point, she told herself, fishing for negatives in obscure shallows.
Before she left the house, she contemplated checking the messages on her answering machine, then decided against it. This was too crucial an evening for any extraneous competition or interruptions.
Mark Frey and his wife Kitty lived in a large colonial style house in Northern Virginia. Frey was a tall man who, although the same age as Hal, looked older, more worn. His wife Kitty, was on the pudgy side, with a hairdo that lay high on her head, harking back to a bygone era. Her round face and ample chins and dimples made her look like an overage kewpie doll.
She had a deep southern accent, which called attention to her ingratiating soft effortless charm. The manner in which she offered them drinks, the eagerness of her look and the flush of her cheeks, pushing her perfect martinis with such fanfare, seemed to hint at her special enjoyment of the product.
"Nobody makes a martini like Kitty," Frey said, the praise unbounded as if she had sculpted a masterpiece. It struck Fiona as bare bones condescension, although Kitty seemed oblivious to it.
"In that case," Hal said. "Pour away."
The house was done in a colonial motif with oiled woods and paintings that smelled of old money and comfort and there was an easy camaraderie between the men, a boyishness and familiarity that bespoke long friendship and shared experiences.
The visit had all the trappings of casual non-business informality, a kind of let-your-hair-down aspect, although Fiona sensed that something very important was going on. Kitty mixed the batch of martinis as if it were an elixir that cured all known diseases and poured them out in oversized glasses complete with three pimento stuffed olives impaled on a plastic pick.
The conversation was innocuous and oblique, old times, life as a Government official, their children, three girls, who were producing progeny at an accelerating rate.
"Not Catholics," Kitty said, drawling out the ancient cliché. "But very sexy Protestants."
They laughed, told stories about their early days, while the delicious smell of roasting chicken and the tang of tine wafted in from the kitchen. From her vantage on a comfortable chair in their den, Fiona caught occasional glimpses of a Filipino maid in a white uniform busy with the table setting.
After their second round of martinis, Hal and Fry disappeared into another part of the house for what was obviously the business at hand between them, leaving Kitty and Fiona together. After the men had gone, Kitty giggled and poured the remnants of the martini pitcher, a sizable amount into their glasses. A flush, like rouge marks on a porcelain doll had mantled Kitty's cheeks and her eyes shined with the euphoria of controlled intoxication.
For her part, Fiona, whose drink of choice was scotch, noted some difficulty enunciating, suddenly realizing the power of the drink's potency. Fiona listened to the drawl of small talk that rolled off Kitty's loquacious tongue, making every effort at politeness and interest. This woman was, after all, the wife of Hal's close friend. Here was an easygoing glimpse into his world and the women who peopled it. Fiona was determined to see only its good side, an increasingly difficult assignment.
Kitty being older and from a world away, would not, of course, be Fiona's first choice for friendship, but pleasant enough to tolerate on occasion if Hal, as her husband, would wish. Her job, Fiona could see, would be to engage the girls while they boys engaged in matters of importance. It struck her as not merely old fashioned but offensive.
"Ah cain't believe how gushy Hal is ovah you Fiona. This is quite a catch, lady. You must have some mahty heavy duty magnetism to attract that man." She giggled. "Ah've known him man and boy for moah yeahs than I wish to say."
"I agree," Fiona said. "He's a fine man."
"Got the whole balla wax. Gobs a money and probably, although ah wouldn't know, lots of healthy leebeedo." She giggled again and took a deep sip of her martini.
"I'd give him very high marks in that department, Kitty," Fiona replied, feeling the heaviness on her tongue.
"Ah hear that you are a police detective of Homicide and lookin' at you, frankly, I cannot believe mah eyes. Seems mahty unusual work for the attractive daughtah of a Senatah."
"It is," Fiona acknowledged.
"You must see some awful sahts," Kitty said.
"Some are not very pretty."
"They say Washington is the murder capitol of the country."
"It's a bit exaggerated."
She lowered her voice and looked toward that part of the house where her husband had taken Hal.
"Ahm no bigot, Fiona," Kitty said. "But you gotta admit wheah theahs smoke theah's fiah."
Under other circumstances, with a more familiar beverage, Fiona might have been able to discipline her remarks. Perhaps it was Kitty's southern accent that set her off, which was patently unfair.
"You mean nigrahs." She let the word drawl on her heavy tongue.
"Ah have not a prejudiced bone in mah body," Kitty said, oblivious to Fiona's mocking sarcasm. "But where there is moah of them, theah is definitely moh crahm, not to mention the costliness of the effot to contain them."
"You said a mouthful, Kitty."
Again she looked toward the area where her husband had gone.
"Ah wouldn't daah say this in public, but we got ourselves a problem in this country."
"Too many nigras screwin themselves to death makin' more babies."
Kitty seemed stunned by the sudden use of mimicking profanity. Her expression ran the gamut between shock and acceptance.
"Ah wouldn't quaht put it lak that Fiona, but the message is well taken."
"Nigras love to screw Kitty."
Kitty swallowed hard and grew ashen under her makeup. Her flitting eyes, looking everywhere but at Fiona's face, reminded her of Martin
e during their interview. The memory seemed to provoke an acceleration of her growing anger. She moved closer to Kitty and lowered her voice.
"Ever suck a black dick, Kitty?"
Oh God, Fiona cried within herself. What am I doing? Kitty stood up unsteadily and once up tried without much success to compose herself as she staggered to the kitchen without a word.
With remarkable discipline both women tried to bluff their way through the dinner with the aid of a very composed silence, hardly entering into the conversation. Fiona barely touched her food and did not even sip the wine. Before dessert, Kitty stood up and announced that she had a sick headache and excused herself politely and went off.
The men tried valiantly to carry things off as if the atmosphere was normal, but their best efforts, ended in an early goodbye.
In the car, Hal was more perplexed than angry.
"What was that all about, Fi?"
"I got drunk, Hal. The martinis..."
"Did you say something to Kitty?"
"I must have," Fiona said.
"You mean you did," Hal said. "...to the wife of the Undersecretary of Defense and one of my oldest friends."
"I'm sorry Hal. I'm not used to martinis."
"Do you know how much business we do with the Defense Department?"
"No I don't," Fiona murmured. His tone was stern and she felt like a little girl being lectured. Worse, she felt guilty of a terrible transgression.
"You've got to be more.... diplomatic, Fi," Hal said, softening. "And know the limits of intoxication."
"I'm sorry Hal."
"The best thing to do would be to call Kitty in the morning and apologize. She's a big-hearted woman and I'm sure she'll understand the circumstances. In fact, she might feel partly to blame for feeding you those bombers." He chuckled to himself and patted her thigh affectionately. "I'm sure it will all work out."
When they got back to Fiona's house, she went directly to her bedroom, threw off her clothes and slipped into bed, hoping that the room would stop doing the dervish before she passed out.
Apparently it did and she woke up sometime in the middle of the night. It was not an unusual circumstance. Often when she had too much to drink, she would wake up suddenly when the intoxication wore off. She was immediately conscious of her surroundings. Hal slept peacefully beside her.
