Death of a Washington Madame

by Warren Adler

  The social worker was monitoring their session with Martine. The room they were in was recently painted in institution green, and the acrid odor made Fiona's head ache. Martine sat next to the social worker at the long end of the table. At one end was an armed woman in uniform who watched the proceedings with studied indifference.

  Martine seemed to have developed a more confident persona since they had last seen him. His wounds were healed and as they questioned him, he tapped his fingers on the table as if a tune was playing in his brain, heard only by him.

  The social worker's name was Pratt, which was the entire name she volunteered.

  "I'm Pratt," she had told them without holding out her hand. "He's still being evaluated."

  Her information seemed to imply some tenuousness to his status.

  "For what?" Fiona asked. "Leniency and forgiveness." The sight of Martine had stirred her anger.

  "Rehabilitation," Pratt said.

  "Deb Shipley could use some of that," Fiona shot back.

  "Who's that?" the social worker asked.

  "Ask Martine?"

  Martine shrugged and showed no emotion.

  "We want to get to the bottom of what made him do this," Pratt said. "We'll never solve anything until we get to the root of the problem."

  "There's nothing to solve. He's the root of the problem," Fiona said. "He has no concept of right or wrong."

  "He's been deprived of the tools to decipher those messages," Pratt said.

  "Bull," Fiona muttered.

  She glanced toward Gail who rolled her eyes, offering the same message. Fiona had discovered that it was a common trait of the social worker to view perpetrators as victims.

  "Considering his age and background, may I suggest a trifle more compassion," Pratt said, patting Martine's arm.

  "There's little enough of it around, why waste it?" Fiona said.

  "Why don't you just proceed with this so called interrogation and spare me your philosophy, Sergeant."

  Never debate with a true believer, Fiona decided, turning to study Martine's face once again. Martine shifted his eyes everywhere but in Fiona's direction.

  "So we're asking this again Martine ... you say you found no cash on the premises?"

  "No," Martine mumbled.

  "Meaning you found no cash or that the question is wrong?"

  "It's a trick question," Pratt said.

  "Is there a ban on trick questions?" Fiona snapped.

  "There's no need for hostility, Sergeant," Pratt said coolly.

  "Do you think I'm hostile Martine?"

  Martine shrugged indifferently.

  "In his world everybody is hostile," Pratt said.

  "What about your world, Pratt?" Fiona asked in frustration.

  "In my world all people are human beings."

  "Dead or alive?"

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "In my world lots of the people are dead. Human beings removed from our world by other human beings for reasons you haven't even begun to think about. Come on Pratt, look at this little turd." Fiona heard her voice rise. "Do you see the slightest hint of remorse or contrition in his face?"

  "Maybe we should suspend this session until you've gotten control of yourself, Sergeant?"

  "This is not a session. This is an interrogation of a perpetrator, a murderer, a rapist...."

  "You don't have to answer any more questions Martine," Pratt said, standing up. She looked toward Fiona, her eyes drifting to Gail, as if searching for sympathy. "He's already told you. He was persuaded to do this by a man in a black car."

  "A black man," Fiona said.

  "Yes ... an African-American." Pratt sneered. "Who gave him five hundred dollars."

  "To kill an old woman..." Fiona said.

  "You stick by that story, right Martine?" Pratt said.

  "How many times I gotta say?" Martine said.

  "That's my point," Pratt said. "How many times?"

  "There is reason to believe he's lying," Fiona said.

  "What reason?" Pratt asked.

  "It doesn't fit together," Fiona said.

  "Not at all," Gail seconded. "We believe he's made up this story."

  "For what reason?" Pratt asked.

  "You know the reason Pratt," Gail sighed.

  "Tell me again," Pratt said.

  Gail shrugged.

  "You see how you feel when people ask repetitive questions."

  "He's already lied once, causing considerable unnecessary grief to innocent people."

  "He was frightened. Intimidated," Pratt said.

  "He lied," Fiona cried. "He identified the wrong man."

  "Why should we believe anything he tells us?" Gail said.

  "Whose side are you on, sister?" Pratt said with unconcealed irritation.

  "This side of the badge, Pratt. And, by the way..." Gail paused and looked briefly at Fiona then at Pratt. "I'm not your sister."

  Fiona shot Gail a worried look.

  "You're too dark to pass, girl," Pratt sneered.

  "I don't deal in racial crap, woman," Gail said.

  "Maybe you should," Pratt said, her lips compressed in anger.

  "If I did, I would have brought my laundry," Gail shot back.

  "Jesus, Gail," Fiona said.

  "I was merely illustrating the futility of her approach," Gail said, smiling.

  "And by the way," Pratt said. "My father was Korean. Not Chinese."

  "Sorry. To me all chinks look alike."

  "You're right," Pratt said. Fiona observed the first crack in her control. "You're not my sister."

  "Thank the Lord. I'm free of the mean gene. My mother only had one daughter."

  "She's a stand-up comic," Pratt said, back in control, but having acknowledged lost ground.

  "A stand-up woman," Fiona corrected. She looked toward Gail and winked. Then she turned back to Pratt. "Christ woman, we didn't come here to fight with you. I came hear to find out whether this.... this piece of garbage.... is lying."

  "I ain't lyin'," Martine said.

  "I believe you, Martine," Pratt said.

  Back at the squad room, Fiona gave the Eggplant a heavily edited account of her conversation with Madeline. Earlier, she and Gail had agreed to present a conclusion, not stud their explanation with lurid details.

  "So it plays like a soap opera," Fiona said. "The fact is she's bared the most intimate secrets of her and her husband's life. Somebody who exposes herself like that is begging us to believe her."

  "Do you?" the Eggplant asked.

  "I ... I think so," Fiona replied. "She's entrusted us with information that could be extremely damaging to her husband if it gets into the public domain."

  "Grist for the gossip mill is all, FitzGerald. She must feel secure that the Governor's resume is beyond reproach. Nothing can be proven. Not without massive effort. This lady is an expert on such matters."

  "Which makes her credible," Fiona said.

  "Remember," the Eggplant pointed out. "She's an actress. She's betting on her effect."

  "How can I forget it?" Fiona said. "I saw her give a spectacular performance.

  "I do," Gail said suddenly.

  "Do what?" Fiona asked.

  "Believe her." She cleared her throat. "And Clayton."

  Fiona looked toward her and smiled. Gail, perhaps out of embarrassment, did not meet her gaze. A good sign, Fiona thought, her mind flashing a sudden image of these two brown giants in copulation mode.

  "That's an interesting concept. First you think they're perps. Then, without even checking for other witnesses, you believe their joint alibi. So much for the science of criminology."

  "It's not a science, Chief," Fiona said. "It's an art form."

  "And your artistic instincts exonerate them?"

  "At this point, yes," Fiona said.

  The Eggplant turned to Gail.

  "Gets my vote."

  The Eggplant nodded.

  "You don't want to submit Clayton to.... what was th
at little bastard's name."

  "Martine."

  "To Martine's scrutiny."

  Gail shook her head vehemently.

  "The kid will lie. Then we'll have to go through the whole sordid exercise again ... only to do a repeat of the Lionel Carpenter thing."

  Fiona saw a lot more than the case at hand in her attitude. Nevertheless, she agreed. The Eggplant reflected on the possibility, then nodded, a gesture that seemed like consent to their hypothesis.

  "What about ... what was his name?"

  "Roy Parker," Fiona reminded.

  "Yeah him. The alleged father."

  "He's got the coerced confession rap on his agenda. Maybe even arson," Fiona sighed. "He's paranoid about Mrs. Shipley's reputation and he's probably stashed the paintings somewhere, never to be found. Now there is the champion secret keeper of all time. We need to get him to confirm what Madeline told me. I'm sure he'll deny everything, but I'm equally certain he'll bend finally and confess all. Nor will the revelation endear him further to Madeline Newton Shipley. In terms of our business at hand, Chief, I'd put him outside the perp loop, which, by the way, may be moot, considering that Martine's story might be a product of his imagination."

  "Imagination is it?" the Eggplant teased.

  "Isn't that the basis of this exercise," Fiona said?

  "So what you're both telling me is to close it," the Eggplant said. "We got a confession. We've incarcerated the perp. We buy the star's theory, which is not part of the case at all. The kid broke in, did the old broad and stole her cash. Our job is over."

  He stood up from the conference table and walked to the window. Fiona knew he was performing his special brand of dramatic art. They had given him what he wanted to hear. What he most desired was to get the star off his back. Fiona could almost hear his thoughts. The media was cooling on the case, thanks to Madeline Newton's, as in Fig Newton's, spin doctoring. Other morbid and sordid stories were being fed to the insatiable great maw.

  The Eggplant turned and came back to the conference table, but did not sit down again.

  "Close it," he said, as Fiona knew he would.

  "Call it a wrap," Fiona said.

  "What's that mean?" the Eggplant asked.

  "Movie talk. End of a shot."

  CHAPTER 22

  "And then there were none," Fiona said aloud to herself. She was sitting in her den, sipping scotch and trying to empty the Shipley case from her head.

  "Can't live a lie," she said, hearing her words in the dead silence of the room. She reached for the phone and dialed Daisy's number, surprised when she heard her friend's chirpy voice, the echo of another world.

  "I caught myself talking to myself," Fiona said. "You were my last hope. I was afraid you were out on your appointed rounds."

  "Bob is. I'm home imagining things," Daisy said.

  "Like what?"

  "Him in the sack. Disgusting flashes depicting him in the pursuit position, while she, whoever she is, pushes against his office door."

  "Great image, Daisy."

  "I thought so. Frankly I'd rather be the doo-ee."

  "I'm depressed enough without confronting your depression. It's either Prozac or you baby."

  "Damn it Fi. Marry the man. See the world. Get laid on the Pacific rim."

  "I sent him away, Daisy," Fiona said. She held her glass up to the light, studied the amber fluid, then took a deep sip and suffered through the long silence.

  "Don't you ever act in your own interest, you idiot?" Daisy rebuked. "What am I going to do with you? It's that job of yours, Fi. All those bodies. You're too much into death. Life is what you should be thinking about. Specifically yours."

  "I couldn't have handled it, Daisy," Fiona said. "Too much like politics. Kissy assy stuff. I saw what it did it my Mom."

  "Land sakes, Fi. Not that song again. You've got to stop carrying around your mother's baggage. It's a different world now."

  "I wouldn't measure up to Hal's expectations. I'd be living a lie." She thought suddenly of Deb Shipley, Roy Parker, William and Madeline. "There are dues to be paid for that."

  "Big deal. So you pay them." Daisy admonished. "I pay them every day. I'm paying them now. Hell, I render unto Caesar what Caesar expects me to render."

  "And to God?"

  "Oh you're so theological. You want my interpretation?"

  "Can I stop it from coming?"

  "No way. God means you, inside you. Your private little place. Soul might be a good word. Caesar is the rest of our life outside our soul. Caesar is the life I show Bob. All the joy in the material, the visible, the social baloney, the kids, the home and hearth stuff, the in-house screwing and sucking. But in that secret place, that juicy spot where all the fantasies are kept, those private little joys, those sweet little indiscretions, the secret wantings, needings, dreamings, and doings. Nobody touches that. Nobody."

  "I hate to say this, Daisy."

  "Say what?"

  "You're a lot smarter than you act."

  "I know."

  Of course, in their lifelong friendship Daisy had always hewed to this concept of compartmentalization. She was articulating it with more verve and eloquence as she grew older. Her little lessons in life always made sense to Fiona. Unfortunately, she could never put them into practice.

  "I wish I had your balls, Daisy," Fiona sighed.

  "It's not my balls you need, Fi."

  "So you think I did wrong with Hal?" Fiona said. It wasn't advice she was seeking, nor validation, nor opposition. She knew Daisy's attitude and answers in advance.

  "For me, Fi. I can make compromises for love. You can't seem to take that leap."

  "Then what's out there for me, Daisy?" Fiona said, the bantering spirit gone, her voice choking with emotion. She felt suddenly engulfed in a tidal wave of self-pity.

  "There I go again, making it worse."

  "Not you. Daisy. Never you."

  Fiona hung up; fighting the temptation to call Hal, she poured herself another drink.

  In these moods, Fiona knew she was helpless in any attempt to control her thought processes. Alcohol instead of numbing her imagination seemed to expand it, taking it on roller coaster journeys through wild speculations and uncharted possibilities.

  Decisions made under the influence were often second-guessed and rejected as wishful or just wrong-headed when sober. But in recycling events and conversations, she was often struck by revelations buried in the heat of the moment.

  Her encounter with Madeline was, in retrospect, a stunning example of the persuasive power of personality. She had approached both Madeline and Clayton in the spirit of pursuit and had ended the encounter in total capitulation.

  She tried to reconstruct Madeline's dialogue, actually the monologue, attempting to divorce it from its considerable persuasive properties. Yet even when the words were put into the bin of memory, devoid of human embellishment, they revealed little that would change her opinion. Then why torture oneself with uncertainty?

  Nothing about human relationships ever fit into a neat little package and this case was no exception. Despite the gaping hole of Roy's disappearance, Madeline's logic was inescapable and certainly believable.

  But where was Roy? Her original scenario had him setting off on the mission he had proposed earlier, namely squirreling away the erotic pictures he had painted of Deb from the prying eyes of those who were sure to over-run the house. Madeline hadn't mentioned the pictures, which meant that she didn't believe them relevant to the historical fiction that Deb had created or that she didn't know about them.

  The later explanation seemed to have more credence than the former. Roy obviously had removed the pictures and stored them away in that locked secret chamber. Chances were he had done this about the time of William's wedding to Madeline at Deb's instructions.

  It was clear that Roy had done nothing in the more than fifty years of their hidden relationship that did not have Deb Shipley's consent and imprimatur. She was, without doubt, the instigator
of the events surrounding the creation of the myth. Roy was the tool, an implement, used strictly in accordance with the plan. One had to assume that he loved the woman, worshipped her in fact, to the point where he could be manipulated to do just about anything Deb Shipley wanted.

  Did she love him? A crowd of maybes spiraled into her mind. In her way, perhaps. Did she, Fiona, love Hal? In her way, perhaps. But in that secret juicy self-centered place that Daisy had referred to ... nobody touched that. Nobody!

  She pushed aside the psychological speculation and directed her thoughts back to the tangible and the material.

  She had assumed the obvious. That Roy had returned to the house. She tried to put herself in his place. It was true he had no place to go. This was the only home he had known for most of his life.

  On the other hand, that part of his life was over. It was time to move on. Then why would he have returned to the house? Why didn't he take the car and move on? But then Roy was not a man to be invested with the common logic of self-interest. Just the opposite. His life was a living testimony to self-sacrifice.

  Could it be that Roy had, indeed, come back to the house? Saw the moving people, then took off on his own on foot. No way, she decided. In his condition, where could he go?

  She was driving toward the Shipley house in moments, hastily dressed, admonishing herself for her naiveté. Roy was the only living source of confirmation of William's strange background and Deb's monumental deception. If one wanted to forever end all possibilities of proof than there was only one clear path.

  It was nearly one and the streets were empty of traffic. Fiona was able to reach the Shipley residence in less than fifteen minutes.

  She wondered, too, considering that the ownership had changed, if she had sufficient reason to enter the house without a warrant, a violation, which would have no consequences unless she discovered something that might validate her entry. In that case, she would have to confess to the infraction and take the consequences. Discovered what? She shuddered at the idea.

  The front door apparently had been repaired to a degree that prevented her from entering unless she broke it down again. She went around to the rear of the house. The door that led from the kitchen to the alley and the garage was also locked.