Death of a Washington Madame

by Warren Adler

  Then she tried the basement door and was surprised to find it unlocked. It was quite possible for the moving people to have overlooked it. Letting herself in, she tried the light switches. They were disconnected, an ominous sign. She rummaged in her shoulder bag for the small flashlight that was part of her regular equipment.

  Throwing the beam in front of her, she walked quietly up to the first floor. It was empty of all furniture now. The great room was a vast barn like area, a musty relic of the past. A tremor of fear engulfed her as she walked through the other rooms on the first level, not the irrational terror of the supernatural. More like the fear generated by the knowledge of mortality and the eerie truth that decay was in store for everything and everybody.

  Inspecting each room, she peeked into closets and cupboards, finding most of them either strewn with castoff odds and ends, the residue of years. The second level, including Deb's bedroom and William's boy's room were also denuded of furniture and wall hangings. Closed cartons, probably containing old clothes and other useless items, were piled to one side of the room awaiting donation to one cause or another.

  All in all, the house contained an inventory that Madeline had consigned to oblivion. Finishing her cursory inspection, she started down the steps. The expedition, she realized, was the product of an overheated imagination, unsatisfying in its result. Wild suspicion had taken her to an obvious dead end.

  Sitting on the bottom step of the now empty vestibule once graced by a rock crystal chandelier, she heard a distant sound. Her heartbeat accelerated, pounded in her chest. Freezing in position, she concentrated, switching off the flashlight. The sound was coming from the basement.

  Standing up cautiously, she moved to the basement entrance door under the staircase, the same one that Roy had used to bring them to the wine cellar. She noted that it was open slightly. Putting her ear into the space of the opening, she could hear the sound clearly. Plodding footsteps were moving at a slow pace along the basement corridor below.

  She tried to analyze the sound and it was only when she heard the grunt of effort and heavy breathing that she decided that someone carrying a great burden was moving toward the basement stairs. She moved directly across the corridor from the basement entrance, flattening herself against the wall, losing herself in the darkness.

  Removing the pistol from her holster, she clicked off the safety and pointed the gun at the basement entrance. Her other hand held the unlit flashlight.

  The footsteps moved from the basement corridor to the wooden staircase making hollow sounds as they moved upward. The hard breathing became clearer. The door creaked fully open.

  She clicked on the flashlight and pointed the pistol.

  "Freeze," she cried, pointing the beam.

  The man was so startled; he dropped his burden, which made a thunderous sound that echoed through the house. He wore a woolen cap pulled low over his forehead, a black sweater and jeans. She moved toward him and pulled off his hat.

  "You!" Fiona cried.

  Her gaze met the terror stricken eyes of William Shipley.

  "For crying out loud, shut that off," he cried.

  "Sorry. Governor," Fiona said, moving the beam to outline the body on the floor. It took only a brief glimpse to confirm the identity of the body.

  "It's not what you think," Shipley said. "I can explain."

  "Of course you can," Fiona sneered, still locked in the incomprehensible shock of recognition.

  "Are you alone?" Shipley asked, his eyes shifting and blinking in search of focus.

  Fiona hesitated for a moment, weighing alternatives.

  "Yes," she said, keeping her pistol leveled. "I'm alone."

  "Good," Shipley nodded. "You need to know everything. Then you can decide how to handle it."

  CHAPTER 23

  Fiona cuffed William to the banister and cursorily inspected Roy's corpse. The hair at the back of his head was matted with dried blood, which had apparently been caused by a blow from a blunt instrument. She felt secure enough with him cuffed to the banister to listen to what he had to say.

  "I wouldn't miss this for the world, Governor."

  "I know you'll understand," he said, his voice oddly confident, his manner calm. She leaned against the wall watching him, his face visible only by the flat light of a half-moon filtering through the cut glass panels beside the door.

  "Before you do ... Governor," she said. From memory she read him his rights.

  "By the book is it?" he said. He seemed to smile but she wasn't sure. He brushed the fingers of his free hand through his hair.

  "Messy thing, the law," she sighed theatrically. "It does interfere with one's personal agenda."

  She looked toward the crumpled body of Roy Parker and only then did it occur to her that this man, this probable murderer sitting before her, was the man's son. God, she thought. Patricide! To her, remembering her own father and the love she bore for him, it was a crime beyond infamy.

  "I'm glad it's you, FitzGerald," Shipley said. "The daughter of a Senator. You can understand the power of ambition." He drew in a deep breath. "It was mother's milk to me. I was never weaned from it. From the moment of memory it has been my life force. Every mother's son can be President of the United States. Remember that old chestnut. Mother took it one step further if that was possible..."

  "What's that got to do with.... with Roy," Fiona interjected, determined to speed up the process. A killer always had justification for his act. She had spent eons listening to these bizarre confessions.

  From where she stood, his eyes looked like deep hollows, his face oddly cadaverous in that light and for the first time she saw the resemblance to Roy, a resemblance that would certainly deepen with age.

  She tried to remember the color of Roy's eyes, deep set behind high knobby cheekbones, the color barely memorable. It was probably good fortune that William had inherited his mother's blondish coloring, the vivid cerulean eyes that Fiona remembered from her childhood, the strong clefted chin, the lightly freckled skin. Roy's dark brooding visage had not been passed down as paternal evidence in childhood and youth. Only in old age, if Shipley ever arrived there, would the paternity be validated visually.

  "People have secrets, FitzGerald," Shipley said, his voice's timbre echoing through the room, reminding her of his magnificent eulogy to Gloria Carpenter. "He was going to tarnish the memory of my mother."

  Fiona was confused, her expectation of his confession challenged.

  "He threatened us with an exposure that was unacceptable."

  "Us?"

  "Madeline and me. He made allegations that mother was ... was a whore, that she had used her ... her body, along with her influence, as barter to further my early career. He said he had evidence. Can you just see such evidence spread over the world tabloids? You might argue it wouldn't affect my so-called image, but the fact is that it would project me in the public mind as ... well ... tainted goods. In today's climate it could risk the end of the dream."

  P.R. again, Fiona mused. The politician's obsession with his public persona. It had always struck her as a destructive force. Now she was bearing witness to the full extent of its power.

  "And you discussed this with Madeline?" she asked.

  He looked up. She assumed his expression registered surprise.

  "Of course. Madeline is my partner in this."

  "What exactly did Roy want?" Fiona asked, oddly puzzled by this new vantage, so different than what she had learned from Roy and Madeline.

  "A great deal. It was blackmail. He had blackmailed me for years." Shipley paused and moved his head. The light of the half moon caught the reflection of moisture, tears glistening his cheeks.

  "Go on."

  He sucked in a deep breath and continued. Fiona watched him, mesmerized by this new unbelievable revelation, anxious to know where it would lead and how it could be deciphered.

  "I told him that it could not go on like this. There was a great deal at stake, you see. Madeline agreed. With
mother gone, it was time to wipe the slate clean. We agreed to meet. Tonight. Here. Tomorrow, you see, the house would be turned over to the architects. Madeline has visions of contributing the house to some worthy cause. Perhaps something to do with the protection of animals. Something to commemorate her name. Mother loved animals, you know, especially dogs. You've seen the pet cemetery behind the house...."

  "So you met tonight?"

  She saw his head bob, assuming it was a nod. He coughed, cleared his throat.

  "He ... he did not want to end it. Not him. He was too canny for that. Oh no. He was going to hold mother's reputation and my future for a King's Ransom."

  "And you fought?"

  "Not at first. I was determined to be conciliatory. I agreed to all his demands, but on the condition that this ended it once and for all."

  "He would give you the so-called evidence and you would give him the money?"

  "Exactly," Shipley said. "Now I know why you're such a great detective, FitzGerald. You have insight."

  "Thank you."

  She waited through a long pause. He had all the attributes of a politician's glib resiliency. It was fascinating to observe.

  "And then?"

  "Yes.... then. He became angry, abusive."

  "And you struck him?"

  "No. He struck me first."

  "With his hands?"

  "Oh no. He had a hammer. We fought, rolled on the floor here. I wrestled away the hammer and.... I had to. I had no choice."

  "You struck him and he fell?"

  "I had no choice."

  It amazed her. His sincerity. His performance.

  "Bravo," Fiona said, clapping her hands.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Let me finish this wonderful scenario," Fiona said.

  "You couldn't believe your eyes. You bent down, felt his pulse. You'd killed him. Actually killed him. But you panicked. What to do? What to do? You remembered the wine cellar. You carried him down there. Then you sat for a long time contemplating any future action. Leave him there or find a way to dispose of the body. After all, it was self-defense. Finally, you decided...."

  "I went outside, found a phone. I couldn't use my car phone. I had to speak to Madeline. Madeline knows how to handle these things. She was right. It was the only decision, we could make. After all, he struck me first. But I couldn't risk exposure. You must understand that FitzGerald."

  "And the purpose of this.... this concoction."

  "Concoction?"

  "However you put it, Governor Shipley."

  She again waited through a long silence, but this time she didn't prod him forward.

  "Could be worth millions, FitzGerald. Think hard about this. To you." His smooth glibness was wearing off. His voice grew harsh. A hoarseness seemed to sandpaper his words. "Just between us. You said you were alone, right? I mean use your head woman. Where will it get you to turn me in? Roy had no relatives. There aren't any records. No credit cards. No social security number. No bank accounts. Maybe a numbered account in some foreign place or he had squirreled away the cash somewhere. We could get rid of him and none would be the wiser. Hell, you're a homicide detective. You must know how to dispose of a body. What do you say?"

  She looked at him, trying to penetrate him with her eyes. Her stomach tightened with disgust. She took her flashlight and threw the beam on Roy's body.

  "You killed your father, Billy."

  "My father?"

  She shined the beam on his face. He squinted and lifted his free hand to shield his eyes.

  "Come now little Billy. Stop this clichéd baloney. You knew damned well who he was. Roy needing money? Ridiculous. You knew everything. You remembered the pictures. It was the last detail. You found him in his bed, asleep. You woke him. You forced him to tell you that the pictures were in the car. You took the car. Trashed the pictures somewhere. Probably burned them. He was the last link, the last possibility that might prove you're..."

  "Don't be a fool, FitzGerald," Shipley cried.

  "Am I wrong?"

  "That's not the point...."

  "And the way you did your mother. Your own mother. Christ Billy. What a monster you are. But clever. You were lucky there. Found the perfect device. A lucky strike, as they say. And, from what I saw at the church, the other day, you're petty good at black street talk."

  She studied his expression in the faint light. He seemed to be nodding. Worse, she saw his mouth, his teeth bared in a twisted smile.

  "Pretty good, don't you think?" he said.

  Somehow she had expected this arrogant surrender from a man who had found a way to dispose of both his parents. She had no expectations of seeing him wallow in remorse. Not him.

  "A superb performance, Governor. Easily a dramatic tour de force. You certainly have all the right stuff for a President."

  He chuckled lightly.

  "I liked the way she went. My dear mother. That bitch. She showed more love to her dogs. She threatened to tell the world about me, the whole dreary story of the subterfuge. She didn't care about her own future. Hell, she had found religion. Ultimate truth. Bull. She needed to prove to me how much she really hated Madeline. Hell, Madeline was my ticket to the White House. She's a magnet that woman is. Oh I might have toughed it out. But why bother when it was so easy. Besides, what does it matter? I've illustrated the essential point of our present condition. Our society is falling apart, FitzGerald. Imagine how simple it was to get a fourteen year old kid like that to perform this service for such a paltry sum." He shook his head and clicked his tongue. "What is happening out there? Stupid little kid bought the whole package. A little cork, a little dark, a little street talk." He chuckled. "You couldn't prove I did it in a million years. No way."

  "But she was your mother." Fiona said, appalled by the revelation.

  "So what?"

  "And Roy was your father?"

  "So they say."

  "Science marches on Governor. There's DNA."

  In the flashlight's beam, he showed little emotion. His performance was over. Beneath the facade was.... was nothing.

  Fiona held in her anger. He was right, of course. Barring a recorded or written confession, there was no way to get him to act out his nefarious scenario, complete with makeup, costume and language, to satisfy a credible identification by Martine.

  She watched his face in the flashlight beam, then moved the beam so that it lit up Roy's lifeless face. The dead eyes glowed back at them.

  "We can prove this one, Billy."

  "What did you do with the paintings?"

  "Me to know. You to find out."

  He was probably right about that as well.

  "And Madeline?"

  "What about Madeline?"

  "She'll be very disappointed, Billy. She so much wanted to be First Lady."

  "Never worry about Madeline."

  A floating cloud suddenly obliterated the faint light from the half moon.

  "I would have made a great President," he said, his voice booming into the darkness.

  CHAPTER 24

  "Could any of you seriously believe I would encourage him to do something like that?" Madeline said, her violet eyes roaming the faces that were ranged around the Eggplant's conference table.

  No one commented, except Gail, who shook her head.

  "I couldn't," she said.

  "Unfortunately," the Eggplant said. "Most homicides happen in families."

  "That's an answer of course, Captain," Madeline said. "But not to my question."

  She looked positively regal in the drab interior of the Eggplant's office, a bigger than life figure in her new role as the appalled wife. She had gone through the initial ordeal and the television shows and newspapers were inundated with her every word. And, of course, her pictures.

  She had appeared at the preliminary hearing where William Shipley's insanity plea had been entered by his lawyers, over both his and the prosecution's objections.

  He had stuck by his story that she had
encouraged his actions, but there was little proof and not a bit of evidence and she had been exonerated from any participation in such horrible events. Besides, since her access to the media was far more than his she had won the public endorsement and sympathy.

  It was, of course, impossible to prove that it was he who had manipulated Martine to do the deed. Through DNA testing it had been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that Roy had been Governor Shipley's real father. In the end, Fiona was certain, that the conclusion would be that the Governor had lost his hold on reality. As for the paintings of his mother, as he said: Me to know. Yours to find out. It was one other item that would be both practically and historically lost ... and not mourned.

  The Eggplant was the last to concede. He studied Madeline with that special laser like penetrating beam that seemed to look right into the heart of the truth.

  "No Mrs. Shipley. I couldn't conceive that your husband's accusation of your collusion is accurate."

  "Considering his ability to create fiction, neither would I," Fiona said.

  Madeline's violet eyes glistened with moisture.

  "You can't imagine what that means to me."

  She stood up and shook hands all around, holding Gail's for a moment longer.

  "You've made quite an impression on Clayton," she said.

  Gail shot a glance at both the Eggplant and Fiona.

  "I wish you can see my blush," Gail said.

  "What will you do now?" Fiona asked.

  Madeline shrugged.

  "One thing I won't do," she said.

  "What's that?" Gail asked.

  "First Lady. I lost the role."

  Later Fiona sat alone in her den going over the frenetic events of the past few days. It meant, of course, that she didn't have the complications of her work to keep her mind off her personal life. More than ever, she felt that she had made the right decision in terms of Hal Perry. Not that there was much comfort in that.

  She flicked on CNN and there staring into her living room was the photogenic face of the irrepressible Madeline Newton. Apparently, Fiona had switched on the TV in the middle of a press conference. Madeline stood behind a podium in a room crowded with reporters.