Death of a Washington Madame (27 page)

"What theory?"

"In my opinion the little bastard made it all up.
There was no black man in a black car. This street smart fourteen year old
sumbitch is.... as the brother's say.... jiving you."

"We haven't discounted that possibility," Fiona
said. It was now clear that this was where Madeline had been headed from the
beginning. Accepting that theory would put the case to bed, foreclose on the
possibility of any further revelations. The memory would fade. Damage control
accomplished. P.R. mission fulfilled.

It amazed Fiona how completely Madeline had blunted her
earlier suspicions.

"What about the money? He didn't take any money."

"I've wracked my brains over that one. You want to
hear my theory?"

Fiona shrugged her consent. The woman's persuasive skills
were awesome.

"I think he found where she kept the money and took
that, left the money in the purse. Deb dealt only in cash. She might have had
some stashed away. My own view. He's taken you. He fooled you with Gloria's
brother. He's jived you, Fiona. He's street smart enough to louse us all up.
Look what he's achieved. Gloria committed suicide. Roy tried to burn the house
down. Now you think I had her killed with Clayton's help.... poor Clayton, that
wonderful gentle giant, now a victim of the stereotype. Would you really throw
him, like a piece of dead meat, to the whim of that little monster? And if you
did, what would you accomplish? What about motivation? Actors always think in
those terms. Do you really believe that I would set up Deb for the killing
field? Why? Down deep we both wanted the same thing for William. Didn't we?
I'll say this. She was an adversary. No question about it. I know she hated me.
Wouldn't you if I absconded with your child, took charge of him, took away her
participation in her great dream? In that case, I should have been the body in
that bed. Not the other way around. The point I'm trying to make is that
neither Deb nor I had it in us to go that far. Far yes. But not that far."
She paused, sucked in a deep breath, then expelled it. "If I were you, I'd
accept the obvious. The boy did it on his own. Don't let the bleeding hearts be
manipulated by that little bastard. He did it. Drop all the peripheral folderol
and stop messing around with other people's lives. Everyone has suffered quite
enough in this tragic affair."

Fiona felt as if a steamroller had flattened her.

"That said," Madeline muttered, slapping her
thighs and getting up from the table. "Is there anything else I can do for
you ... Fiona?" She smiled pleasantly. "Nice name, very alliterative.
I hope you don't mind the familiarity. Considering the discussion, I hope
you'll return the favor. Madeline is my real name. Newton I got off a Fig Newton
box." She started to move away. "Can we call this a wrap? I've got
work to do around here. All of this junk must be appropriately dispatched,
including that painting, which will be duly repaired and, as I told you, hung
in the Governor's Mansion. Perhaps, at some future date, in the living quarters
of the White House."

"I think we've covered enough ground for one
day," Fiona said, feeling foolish and inept in the face of this force of
nature.

They found Gail and Clayton sitting in the great room, chatting
amiably, which seemed incongruous to their original roles. Gail's eyes sparkled
and Clayton seemed uncharacteristically animated, if not in words, in
expression. Perhaps it was all in her imagination, Fiona conceded.
Nevertheless, the change in calibration, especially concerning Gail, made her
take note.

The great room was now all but empty of its original
possessions. More than anything, the dismantling of this room was the real
death knell of Deb Shipley, her life and times. Her era was over. Here was her
obituary. Death of a Washington Madame. She was over, the set struck by the
orders of Madeline Newton.

"Mrs. Shipley and I had a nice little chat,"
Fiona said, knowing that her tone had all the earmarks of surrender. "She
had certain theories that are worth exploring."

"Does she?" Gail said with a brief look at
Clayton. Fiona eyed them with interest.

"If Roy shows up while you're still here, would you
please have him call us," Fiona said.

"Of course," Madeline replied.

Fiona was struck by the curious fact that Madeline, who had
provided her with such sensitive and intimate revelations, had not mentioned
Roy's erotic paintings of Deb Shipley.

"He's welcome to stay until we decide what to do with
the property," Madeline said.

"Very kind of you Mrs. Shipley," Fiona said.

"It's the least I could do ... considering."

"You've been over that ground before," the social
worker said.

She was different than the one who was present when they
had visited the Juvenile Center before, a light skinned black woman with almond
shaped eyes flecked with yellow and soft hair done in bangs. Fiona suspected
she was part Asian. She had an air of superiority which made her officious, a
woman with an attitude. She was the type Fiona detested most.

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 that
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."