Death of a Washington Madame (21 page)

"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 Martine
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.

She recycled the conversation in her mind. Yes, she had
been intolerant and insulting. She deserved castigation. Nevertheless,
something had changed in the calibration of her relationship with Hal. Kitty's
attitude was no different than scores of people she had known. Yes, she had
soaked up the anger of her black colleagues, had over-identified with them,
despite every effort to achieve color blindness. She was equally intolerant of
reverse bigotry.

Kitty's remarks were typical considering her background and
education. Bigots came in all sizes and colors. This was Washington. Hypocrisy
was endemic.

That was it, she decided. She would have to raise the level
of her own hypocrisy. Make no waves. Be the obedient corporate wife. Say the
right thing. Above all control yourself, your comportment, your demeanor, your
words. Hal had said ... his words echoed in her mind. "Do you know how
much business we do with the Defense Department?"

She turned to Hal and shook him. He was awake instantly.

"You know what I said to her?"

"What?"

"Did you ever suck a black dick?"

"Jesus, Fi."

"That's what I said."

She lay down and closed her eyes. For a long time, she felt
him looking at her. He didn't speak and made no move to reach out to her. But
she knew. It was all over.

Thankfully, the morning had been free of tension from a
work point of view. The Eggplant was meeting with the Mayor. The Lionel thing
had been resolved and although the open question still remained as to who put
Martine up to the deed, it did not have the same pressure cooker effect that it
had earlier.

She had literally sneaked out of the house while Hal was
still asleep. It was cowardly, she knew, but she could not face a confrontation
with him. The events of last night, although muddled, embarrassing and shameful
in the clear light of morning, had, nevertheless convinced her that she was
unsuitable material for a corporate wife, despite her feeling for Hal Perry.
She would, she decided, be a disaster in that role.

It was also cowardly to write him a note and not tell him
in person. But she knew that she would certainly have broken down and made her
even more ashamed and vulnerable. The note was terse.

"Hal, darling. I wouldn't hack it. Sorry. Love
Fiona."

How awful, she told herself, as she reread the note. At
least the message was clear, she decided, leaving it in place next to the
coffee maker in the kitchen.

As she drove downtown by herself, she had turned the matter
over in her mind and concluded that she had actually done the courageous thing,
the honest thing, the best thing for both of them. It did not erase the
heartache, however, the sense of terrible loss. Part of the way, she could
barely see for the tears that welled in her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.

In the squad room, Gail had given her a cheery greeting.

"It's all over the papers and the TV."

It took a moment for Fiona to put her mind back into work
thoughts.

"A PR coup for the Governor and his lady."

"Is that good or bad?" Fiona wondered aloud,
noting that the information had barely caught her interest.

"You okay?" Gail asked. It was, at that moment,
exactly the question not to ask.

"Don't I look okay?" Fiona snapped.

"No."

"Then that's your answer."

"Uh-uh," Gail muttered, turning back to paperwork
on her desk.

Fiona was relieved when the phone rang on her desk.

"Angus Macintosh here," the voice said. It took
her a few seconds to register the name. "From the bank."

"Yes," Fiona replied.

"I have this problem, Sergeant," Macintosh
explained. "We sent over our people to the Shipley house. You remember my
reference to an auction. Well we had to have everything evaluated and priced in
preparation."

"So what's the problem?" Fiona shot back. This
was not her day for patience.

"They're unable to get into the house. It seems that
Mr. Parker has barricaded himself inside and won't let anyone in."

"Are you certain?"

"Actually I'm calling you from my car which is parked
in front of the house. I'm telling you the man has barricaded himself there.
And he doesn't answer the phone."

"Have you tried a court order?"

"I thought perhaps we could avoid that. The bank would
hate to be involved in any media circus. Could you see your way clear helping
us out on this?"

"We'll be right down there," Fiona said, hanging
up.

A number of options went through Fiona's mind the first of
which was to confirm Macintosh's information about Roy's not answering his
phone. She let it ring at least ten times before giving up.

Driving to the Shipley house, Fiona explained to Gail what
was happening.

"His last hurrah," Gail said.

"Poor bastard," Fiona muttered. "Fifty years
for this. I hate endings."

It must have sounded out of context to Gail who looked at
Fiona strangely.

"Okay Fi, I'm listening."

"It's over with Hal," Fiona blurted.

"I thought as much."

"As they say: over when it's over." She tamped
down a lump in her throat and held back tears. "Well it's over."

"I'm sorry," Gail said.

"No you're not. You're still stuck with me."

"I've reluctantly accepted my fate."

They slowed down in front of the Shipley house, found a
parking space and got out of the car. Macintosh got out of his car and followed
by two women came up to them.

"Are you sure he's in there?" Gail asked.

"Oh he's in there," one of the woman said. She
was the older of the two, with glasses on a croakie hanging down over her
jacket. She was gray-haired and unsmiling. "I rang the bell. He answered.
I told him who I was and what I was doing. He told us to go away."

"And you did," Fiona said.

"Not at first," the woman said. "We have
this assignment. He had no right to stop us."

"No right at all," Macintosh agreed.

"One could say, he's the official owner," Fiona
argued.

"Not quite yet, not officially. But considering all
the debts against the estate, as I told you, it's not much to look forward
to."

Fiona's eyes scanned the front of the house. On the third
floor a curtain moved and she caught a brief glimpse of a human face,
presumably Roy's. She waved her arms, but the curtain ceased to move.

Fiona and Gail walked to the front door. Fiona pressed the
button and the chimes rang repeatedly, but Roy did not come to the door.

"Can you hear me, Roy?" Fiona called. She
imagined that she heard sounds coming from the other side of the door. There
was no answer.

"Roy," Fiona said. "I understand your
feelings, but these people have a legal right to do this. Sooner or later
they're going to get in."

There was still no answer.

"Fire," one of the women cried.

Fiona stepped back to see smoke beginning to stream out of
the top floor room where she had seen Roy's face. Turning, she saw Macintosh
run to his car and pick up the phone.

Fiona and Gail went back to the front door, rang the chimes
again and banged on the door. They waited a moment then tried breaking it in
with their shoulders. It was too thick and heavy and they didn't have the
strength or bulk to budge it.

The fire engines were there in record time, battering down
the door in seconds as they moved their hoses into place and lugged them up the
three flights to the top floor where the fire had started. Fiona and Gail moved
in behind them, but headed for Roy's room.

In the room, some clothing and a few books were scattered
over the floor. In the rear of the room was a half opened door. Fiona had
noticed it before. Roy had told them it was a storeroom. She pushed open the
door and flicked a wall switch.

A bare bulb lit up a vault-like room with cement walls. The
room was incredibly dusty and filled with spider webs, which reminded Fiona of
one of those secret rooms that were the staple of horror movies. An acrid odor
of paint and dankness assailed their nostrils. It seemed obvious that this room
had not been open to fresh air for a long time.

Lining one side of the wall was some paint-spattered
pallets and easels, which indicated that this was a storeroom for an artist's
supplies. A number of canvases leaned against the wall. They leafed through them.
Most were paintings of dogs and of a small boy in various poses.

"Little Billy?" Gail asked.

The resemblance seemed clear. Fiona nodded.

There was also a sketchpad covered with a heavy coat of
dust. Fiona picked it up and tapped it gently to minimize the resulting cloud.
Thumbing through it they saw what appeared to be studies of a soldier in
uniform, reminding Fiona instantly of the large portrait of William's father
that hung in the great room.

The inspection of the storeroom was cursory. They concluded
that Roy had set the fire upstairs and left hurriedly, taking with him some
personal possessions and perhaps some souvenirs of what were apparently his
painting days.

"I guess he cut out," Gail said.

Upstairs, they could hear the rustling and banging sounds
of the fireman. Fire trucks had surrounded the house, front and rear. Moving to
the front vestibule again, they were met by one of the fireman coming down the
stairs. Fiona showed him their badges.

"Some damage to one room, but no big deal," he
said. "Lucky you were here. Whole place could have gone up." More
firemen started to come down from the third floor uncoupling the hoses as they
went.

"Why would he do this?" Gail asked as they
watched the men clear the hoses from the stairs.

"The obvious," Fiona replied. "Fire
removes."

"Removes what?"

"Good question."

But the idea stimulated their curiosity. They started to
move back up the stairs when they heard Macintosh's voice behind them.

"We're taking off," he said. "If it's okay,
maybe we can start the process tomorrow. I mean if Mr. Parker doesn't interfere
again."

"Looks like he took off," Gail said.

"Well that's a relief." Macintosh said.
"When I saw that smoke I had a terrible sensation that there wasn't enough
fire insurance to cover the loss."

"Ass would be in a sling, right Mr. Macintosh?"
Fiona said. Something about the man offended her.

After he had gone, they moved upstairs to the second level
where Mrs. Shipley's bedroom was located. Then up to the third, which earlier
had been characterized by both Gloria and Roy as "unused." The
firemen had cleared the steps, but there was still movement upstairs.

They reached the third level. An older fireman, obviously
the man in charge was surveying the damage to what appeared to be the remains
of a back bedroom. The door had been broken into and lay shattered in the
corridor. In the room, both windows were open. Apparently some of the
smoldering items had been removed by flinging them out the windows to the
street level. The rest of the room was soaked with moisture and reasonably
intact, except for the bed. They showed him their ID and he nodded.

"Homicide," Fiona said.

"This the house the old lady got it. I thought
so."

Fiona nodded.

"Fire started on the mattress and the curtains,"
the older fireman explained to Fiona and Gail. "Looks like clear case of
arson. I'd say it was more emotional than practical."

The fireman watched them as they looked around the room,
which held a large antique breakfront, a chaise lounge and an upholstered easy
chair. On the wall were large rectangles, indicating that a number of big
pictures had once hung on there.. On the floor was thick white carpeting, water
soaked and dirty with recent footprints.

"Up there," the older fireman said, his weathered
face crinkling into a smile. He winked.

Looking up. Fiona saw a mirrored ceiling, stained now with
watermarks. But they could still clearly see their images in the messy room.

"Some people like to view themselves from all
angles," Gail said. Fiona laughed at her observation. She looked at the
older fireman and winked a response.

"Dirty old man," she snickered.

"Best compliment I had all day," he said.

"At least we know the room was put to good use,"
Fiona said.

"I'll buy that," the older fireman said.

Then he tapped the walls with his knuckles.

"Thick walls," he said, sucking in a deep breath.
"They really built solid in those days. He turned to the younger fireman
beside him.

"I guess we can button up."

"I'd say so."

He looked up at the mirror again, shook his head and
chuckled as he left the room.

The men clattered down the stairs and in a few moments they
heard the rumble of the heavy fire-trucks as they lumbered away. But the house
was only quiet for a moment. From somewhere not far away they heard the
unmistakable sound of a car motor turning over but refusing to catch.

"We must be losing it," Fiona said, castigating
herself for not checking the garage.

After a brief glance of understanding, they ran down the
stairs and out the back door.

Fiona, followed by Gail, dashed through the tiny patch of
pet cemetery and across the alley to the garage entrance, which had apparently
been blocked by the fire trucks. Within the garage, a shiny black Cadillac
limousine coughed and sputtered, then quit. Roy sat in the front seat, trying
desperately to get the car started.

"I wouldn't, Roy," Fiona said, unsnapping her
holster but not drawing. Gail opened the door on the driver's side. Roy, sweating profusely, slumped over the wheel. She pulled out the keys and pocketed
them.

"Where you heading Roy?" Gail asked.

He shook his head sadly, shrugged and looked at them
blankly.

"I ... I was turning it over," Roy said, an
obvious lie. "It's old. Needs to be turned over."

"Really Roy," Fiona said.

"Carburetor floods," Roy said as if to counter
her opinion.

"Where were you going?" Gail asked.

"Out."

"Running away?" Fiona asked.

"To where?"

In the back seat, covered by paint stained canvas were what
was obviously a number of paintings. Fiona opened the back door.

"What's this, Roy?"

"They're mine," he cried.

"We're not disputing that Roy," Fiona said.
"Not yet." She grabbed the canvas and pulled it toward her,
uncovering the paintings.

"You have no right..." Roy began. He had
straightened in the driver's seat and had partially turned to the back seat.

"You can come out of there Roy," Gail ordered. He
seemed to reflect for a moment, then started to move off the seat. Gail grasped
his upper arm to help him out, but he shrugged her away.

"What the hell were you trying to do, Roy?" Fiona asked. She had bent into the back seat and was viewing the paintings.

He didn't answer, his attention more occupied with the
paintings in the rear.

"They're mine," Roy said. "I painted
them."

"I'm sure that once they're sorted out, you'll be able
to keep them," Fiona said, making a sincere attempt to placate him. She
started to slide one of the paintings out of the door.