Death of a Washington Madame (16 page)

"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 five 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."

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
Eggplant 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.

"Don't start tearing yourself up again. Gail,"
Fiona rebuked. "You did what had to be done."

Fiona watched Gail grow reflective, hoping she was not
heading back into the morass of racial conflict. Thankfully, the Eggplant
interrupted and summoned them back into his office.

"The star is happy, all's well with the world,"
the Eggplant said, smiling, obviously comforted by Madeline's call. "The
light at the end of the tunnel she calls it."

"No doubt in her mind?" Gail asked.

"And if she had, what would that matter?" the
Eggplant said." Her thoughts reach beyond these mundane matters."

"How did Gloria take it?" Gail asked.

"She never said," the Eggplant replied. "She
was more concerned about the spin."

"Spin?" Gail asked.

"Where you been Prentiss? Spin is where it's at. Ask
your partner over there. The Senator's daughter knows all about spin."

"Mother's milk to me," Fiona said. "Image is
all."

"She's let me in on her secret tactics, told me how
they were going to play it, spin it so it comes out good for the A team. P.R!
Isn't that what's it's all about? I'm now an official co-conspiring
spin-doctor's assistant. She wants me to tell the media guys that this is all
the result of a breakdown in family values. Play it as a great universal
tragedy as if there was a moral lesson to be learned from all this."

"She wants you to go evangelical," Fiona said.

"How does that help the.... the spin?" Gail
asked.

"The Governor, as a reward for our brilliant detective
work will compliment our little homicide division in this the murder hotbed.
Throw bouquets to the boys.... and girls ... in blue. Especially big kisses all
around for the two ladies who found a viable suspect, even..." He nodded
toward Gail. "The dark menace over there. Naturally he will also place a
kiss on the fat moon of the old Eggplant." He snickered at his little
private joke. He knew what they called him behind his back, spinning it
inwardly to accept it as a term of affection not necessarily derision.
"Somehow. Don't ask me to spell it out, they'll relate it or blame it all
on the decline of moral values, the primacy of the family unit, etcetera
etcetera. She really went at it, trying to pump me up with talk about how much
little Billy loved Mommy and what a great moral force she was in his life.
She's gonna spin it as a great American tragedy, American is important in this,
and, in a gesture of Christian forgiveness, she and her husband will establish
a fund for the Rehabilitation of Juvenile Offenders."

"I'll say this for her," Fiona said. "She
keeps her eye on the ball."

"Hell, you'd think the bitch was Joan of Arc. Sugar on
her lips. Talked to me pro to pro. Her idea is to spin it up to a higher level,
foreclose on the tabloid stuff, downplay the blood and gore. As she put it
nothing is more boring to the great unwashed than a moral posture to chase away
the media. The objective here is to cap the sensational coverage as fast as
possible."

"And you told her you'd cooperate." Fiona said.
Of course, he would, she knew. He was never one to turn down an opportunity to
get his name in the media, especially if the cause had such a high moral tone.
After all, he, too, was running for office, head of the cops.

"How could I turn down such a pretty lady? Maybe we
should hire her as a consultant. We sure could use a good spin doctor around
here."

Fiona had never seen him on such a high. Normally, his mood
was somber, his temper short and his psyche harassed by an army of demons.
Fiona wasn't sure she liked him in this uncommon mode, his guard down, his
edges blunted.

"The point of the exercise," he said, "is
that if either of you are approached by the media, you just zipper up. No
sideshows, hear? I said I'd play it her way."

"Your call, Chief," Fiona shrugged.

"My call is that you are both doing one helluva job.
In case you missed the implication, that's a compliment." He looked toward
Gail. "Good to see you got your stuff together, Prentiss."