Death of a Washington Madame (20 page)

"Hungry?" Gail asked.

He shook his head in the negative.

"It's about Uncle Lionel," he said, lips
trembling. He had put his hands on the table, but noting the way they were
shaking, he quickly got them out of sight.

"What about Uncle Lionel?" Fiona asked, trying to
be as gentle as possible as if the slightest untoward word might push him into
nervous collapse.

"That boy is a liar," Ben croaked. "Uncle
Lionel is not the person he saw. No way."

"Can you prove that Ben?" Fiona asked. She cut a
glance at Gail who observed him anxiously.

"He was with me," Ben said, suddenly breaking
into a hacking cough.

"Ben, you're his nephew," Fiona said when he had
stopped coughing. "People will question your motives in validating his
alibi. You'll have to be more specific and, for insurance, it would be nice if
you could produce more witnesses."

"Where were you, Ben?" Gail asked.

Ben swallowed. This obviously was a massive effort of
overcoming reluctance on his part.

"Shooting up," he said, lowering his eyes.

"Where?"

"A house on U Street."

"Were there other people there?" Fiona asked,
knowing the answer in advance. Shooting drugs was a social occasion.

Ben nodded, then looked up at them, lips trembling. He drew
in a deep breath.

"Fat chance any of them will corroborate your story,
Ben," Fiona said.

"Yeah. But the reason Uncle Lionel won't say is
because of me. Not them."

"Were you there all Wednesday night?" Fiona
asked.

"The whole day and over night. We both left in the
morning."

"People will say: Ben you're a junkie. How does a
junkie keep track of time?"

"I know what they'll say," Ben said, shuddering.
"Promise a junkie a fix and he'll say anything."

"There's truth to that, Ben," Fiona said.

"I swear," Ben said.

"An oath is hardly credible coming from a
junkie," Fiona said.

Fiona studied Ben's face. Under the haggard look and sad
discouraged eyes she tried to imagine him as a handsome young man looking at
life's possibilities with exuberance and energy. A wishful thought, she decided
sadly. Despite this courageous act to save his uncle, his life was in shambles.

"Do you believe me?" he asked.

Fiona and Gail exchanged glances.

"I do, Ben. I truly do," Fiona said.

"Does your mother know?" Gail asked gently.

"Poor mom. I wanted to tell her before I came here.
Only I can't. All she's been through. And what it did to Aunt Gloria. It'll
break her heart some more." Ben said. "She thought we both were clean
after we rehabbed six months ago and were on Methadone. Mom will blame Uncle
Lionel only it was me that turned Uncle Lionel on again."

He exhaled, nodded his head, brought his hands up to the
table and looked at them. They were shaking uncontrollably.

"I can't live like this no more," he sighed.
"All the money wastin' and lyin'. Now seein' Uncle Lionel in trouble over
that sad boy who did that to Miz Shipley." He scanned them both with sad
pleading eyes. "I'd rather die first than let this happen to Uncle
Lionel."

"One death in the family is enough for now Ben,"
Fiona said.

"Your mother will find out soon enough," Gail
said. "You should tell her before she learns it from others."

"Yeah. But I gotta help Uncle Lionel. That
boy...."

"You realize you'll be blowing the whole shooting
gallery," Fiona said. "You could be in real trouble. You and your
Uncle."

"I know. But I ... I can't let this happen to Uncle
Lionel."

"Coming forward was an act of courage," Gail told
Ben who managed a thin cynical smile. He made no comment letting the compliment
hang in the air.

"I just dunno what happened to us. Aunt Gloria ... she
was the best of us. An look what we did to her."

"You didn't do anything to her Ben." Fiona said.
"She made her choice by herself ... like the choice you just made."

"The best way to show your love for her Ben is to
clean up your act," Gail said.

"I will. I know I will.... "He suddenly broke
down and began to sob, his shoulders shaking. It took him awhile to get himself
under control. "Finally," he said, sniffling. "Maybe I done
somethin' good."

Fiona went over the scenario in her mind. If Ben were
telling the truth, Uncle Lionel would probably confirm it. The chances were
that the nark squad knew all about the house. Probably a nest of snitches.
Deals would have to be made. The Eggplant would be off the hook as far as
Madeline was concerned. There would be no need for Haskell Fenton. Alls well
that ends well, she told herself. With one exception. If not Lionel who?

"Ben, I have to ask you some important questions that
deal only with your Aunt Gloria."

Ben nodded.

"She helped you all out with money, didn't she?"

"Aunt Gloria was the best," he said, tears
flooding his eyes.

"It's okay Ben, we know how great and generous Aunt
Gloria was to the people she loved." Gail said reaching out and putting a
comforting hand on his arm.

"Did she say that when Miz Shipley died, she would be
getting an inheritance?"

"She said that, yeah. Only..."

"Only what Ben?" Fiona pressed.

"Only we didn't expect that to happen any day soon.
Neither did Aunt Gloria." He sighed and shook his head. "What
happened to our family?"

They sat in silence for a while, each deep in their own
thoughts. The question he had asked hung in the air, unanswerable.

Ben had put his hands back on the table, folding them in
front of him to hold them still. Keeping one's emotional distance was an
essential part of police work. Was this an exception? Considering the images
that they had been exposed to, the cherished family photographs in Gloria's
room, the pride she took in her hard-working parents, her apparently non
judgmental love for her family, Fiona could not totally remain outside the
circle of involvement.

"Ben," Gail said. Again she moved her hand and
placed it on the troubled young man's arm. "Why..."

Fiona knew that the question was part of Gail's quest for
her own answers.

"I think about that all the time," Ben sighed. He
lifted his head and looked into her eyes. "There are a lot of excuses, a
lot of things I can blame it on. You know what I'm talkin' about sister."
Fiona understood her own irrelevance to the exchange. She watched as his
bloodshot eyes narrowed and he seemed to be looking deep inside of Gail.

"Then I look at you," Ben said. "And I know
where to place the blame."

He jabbed a thumb into his chest, jabbed it hard, as if it
were a knife.

The persistent jangle of the front door chimes eased Fiona
out of a dead sleep. It was her day off and she had earned it. Besides, she
wanted to be rested for Hal, who was scheduled to arrive that evening.

Raising her head, she looked at the green digital numbers
of the electric clock ... eight-thirty. She got out of bed, padded across the
carpet, her mind groping for the swiftly fading images of a lost dream.

Actually she had gone to bed on a cloud of tranquility, a
rare response considering the countercurrents that eddied around the confusing
events surrounding Mrs. Shipley's murder. Confronted with Ben's revelations,
Lionel had collapsed his stonewalling and broken down, if not in gratitude,
with great relief.

She had guessed correctly that her colleagues at MPD knew
quite a lot about the shooting gallery in question and it had, indeed, been
riddled with snitches, who had confirmed that Lionel and his nephew had spent
the Wednesday in question and part of Thursday in the house.

It had provided both Gail and Fiona with yet another
emotional moment as Ben confronted his Uncle with the information and they had
watched the drama of the two men embracing in a familial clinch that drew tears
all around, even from the somber demeanor of Haskell Fenton who had observed
the proceedings.

Goodness, Fiona had remarked to herself, could be found in
the most unlikely places, although the emotional high experienced by all
concerned would inevitably be tempered with the reality of what dependence on
addictive substances can do to human beings. In the cooler light of reflection,
the future for both Lionel and his nephew in that regard looked bleak.

What remained for Fiona and Gail was to visit Martine and
confront him with the facts of refutation. He had been transferred to a
maximum-security section of the Juvenile Detention Center. His wounds, due to
the extraordinary recuperative powers of extreme youth, were apparently well on
their way to healing.

They could tell from the personnel present, a guard and a matron,
both black, that he had been placed on a track that viewed him more as a victim
than a perpetrator, a condition that had earlier been the source of Gail's
tailspin. At that point, however, after the dramatic events of their day, Gail
seemed to be feeling less certain of this mindset than she had been the day
Martine was discovered beaten and bruised in Mrs. Shipley's wine cellar.

They had brought Martine to a depressing private room with
mismatched chairs and battered walls that seemed literally stained with misery
and tears. Martine looked more confident than he did at the hospital, cocky in
fact, as if he had gained emotional heft from exposure to other juvenile
offenders for having "done" a white lady and humiliated her with the
macho power of his alleged manliness.

"These people are here to talk to you about what you
told them the other day, Martine," the matron said. She was a big woman
with a surly manner and a too-red lipstick that made her lips look swollen and
bloodied.

Fiona knew that the woman's presence would not be helpful
to her mission. Unfortunately, by protocol and procedure, she was trapped into
accepting it. With an effort of will she masked her antagonism. She wasn't
ready to undermine the non-threatening atmosphere required to get Martine to
recant. His deliberate false identification had, at that point, less telling
consequences for Lionel, but they did not want to foreclose on the opportunity
of a more accurate identification of the real culprit, when and if, such a
confrontation would take place.

"Martine," Gail began when they were all seated.
"You told us that the man who gave you the five hundred dollars was Lionel
Carpenter. Am I correct?"

Martine avoided their eyes, fidgeted and kicked the chair
with the heels of his shoes.

"Yeah. Was Lionel like I told you," Martine said,
his eyes looking everywhere but at the people in the room.

"Are you absolutely sure of that Martine?" Gail
asked, treading softly.

"I tole you," Martine said. "It were
Lionel."

"Think hard," Gail reiterated.

"It were Lionel," the boy repeated, feigning
boredom and impatience.

"He told you that," the matron interjected. Gail
shot her a look of rebuke and Fiona could tell that she was fighting the desire
to erupt.

"We know better, Martine," Gail said, her expression
changing, her demeanor now fierce and aggressive. "You're a liar."

"I tole you," Martine replied with a sneer.

"You told us a lie," Gail said. "And you
know it's a lie, Martine. Because we have learned that Lionel Carpenter wasn't
anywhere near where you were that night."

Martine exchanged glances with the matron who took it as a
signal for a protective remark.

"We'd prefer a less belligerent attitude,
officer."

"This child is a murderer, a rapist and a liar,"
Gail exploded, turning her anger on the matron. "He has implicated an
innocent man." Before the matron could reply, she directed her gaze back
to Martine. "Right Martine?"

Martine's glance fluttered around the room.

"Right Martine?" Gail said, raising her voice,
signaling with her hand for the matron to keep quiet.

"God dammit boy look at me."

Martine swallowed hard and for a brief moment their eyes
met, then he turned away.

"Now Lionel Carpenter has cause to be very upset with
you.... your mother and your grandmother."

"Now wait a minute..." the matron said.

"I'm not addressing you, woman," Gail said
angrily. "I would advise you not to interfere in homicide business."
The matron started to say something, then seemed to sink back in an angry funk.

Gail turned back to Martine.

"Would you rather we get that white man in here to ask
you these questions?"

She meant Roy, of course. The intimidation was blatant, but
Fiona could see that Gail was determined to extract her revenge for his
manipulation of her.

"Would you?" she pressed.

Martine was beginning to fidget more than before. Gail's
threat had obviously impressed him.

"Maybe we should call him, Sergeant FitzGerald,"
Gail said with mock sincerity.

"Good idea," Fiona said, standing up.

"No." Martine began, then stopped. The Matron
started to speak, but Gail's sharp glance made her swallow her words.

"It were dark," Martine said, biting his lower
lip.

"Too dark to be sure, right Martine?"

He lowered his eyes and nodded.

"And his voice was also hard to recognize right?"

Martine nodded.

"People make mistakes all the time, Martine. No big
deal. You just made a mistake. Isn't that right?"

He seemed relieved at Gail's sudden change to a
conciliatory attitude. His eyes flickered with alertness for a moment then
glazed back to indifference.

"Done," Gail said, slapping her thighs and
standing up.

Without saying good-bye or looking back, she walked out of
the room, Fiona following. She was silent for most of the way back to
headquarters.

"He's still a victim," she muttered as she got
out of the car, slamming the car door. Fiona felt it impolitic to respond.
"But it's no excuse for murder and rape."

They reported the results of their interview with Martine
to the Eggplant who was obviously elated.

"The star should be ecstatic," Fiona said.
"Although the perp is still at liberty."

"Give the media a chance to calm down," he
replied with a thin smile, reaching for the phone.

Righting wrongs had a soothing effect on Fiona, hence her
tranquility and the prospect of a good night's sleep.

She could see Hal Perry's face waiting in front of her
front door. She hadn't expected him until that night. Opening the door she fell
into his arms.

"I thought..." she began, but he curtailed her
remarks with a deep kiss.

"Caught a tailwind," he whispered when they had
finished their kiss.

"Speaking of tails," she sighed, grinding her
pelvis into his. They barely made it up the stairs and into bed as she tangled
with his various buttons and zippers.

"This is an absolute necessity," she said,
reaching for him, inserting him, resting her heels on his shoulders, rotating
her body for the deepest possible merger with him.

"God, Hal."

"I know Fi. I know."

They did not cool until a second more leisurely sexual
episode had transpired.

"Quite a surprise," she said, nestling in his
arms, playing with his chest hairs.

"For me as well. I took a chance. You could have been
up early chasing the bad guys."

"I'm sick of bad guys," she said, rising on her
elbows and kissing his eyes shut.

"And I'm sick of not having you with me," he
said, wasting no time getting to the heart of the matter.

"Later," she said. "Let's not spoil the day
with weighty decisions."

"It has to be resolved, Fi," Hal said. There was
no mistaking his air of finality. She knew that any postponement of the
decision was impossible.

"I know," she said savoring the moment, letting
the options settle in her mind. There was, no doubt about it, great joy and
comfort in his nearness. And pleasure. The plusses were easy to catalogue. She
had touched those bases many times in her thoughts. Perhaps, she told herself,
she was exaggerating the negatives. Submitted to a neutral panel, she knew she
would be looked at as an idiot for not taking up his offer of marriage.

Had she been less than efficient in making cogent arguments
to herself? Was she using her job as an excuse, as if it were some holy
calling. That same neutral panel would undoubtedly think of her presence in the
job an insult to her potential. It would, of course, be the prevailing view of,
not only her peers, but her present colleagues.

What is a smart, educated, advantaged, financially
independent white girl doing in this black blue-collar snake pit of peril and
conflict? How could she possibly explain her presence in this institution,
except to say that she felt fulfillment, excitement, satisfaction, self-worth,
passion and, above all, usefulness in her chosen profession. Bringing
evil-doers to justice, she had decided, was no small thing among a smorgasbord
of occupational choices.

"I love my work," she might cry into the valley.
The returning echo might as well be: "I am in love with a gorilla"
for all the sense it would make to her judges.

The choice was clear your honors ... between the dark
inexplicable "that" and the easily explainable "this,"
meaning the job of being the enviable, devoted, full time wife of the
magnificent Hal Perry.

They spent most of the day in bed, getting up for natural
causes only. It was glorious, an island of total devotion to their own
pleasures. He had not objected when she had cut off answering all phone calls,
a condition that would inflame both the Eggplant if he called and Hal's
worldwide support system.

"The hell with everything beyond us," Hal told
her, meaning that he had probably carved out the day in his schedule for just
such a purpose, which she knew was an inescapable conclusion. She detested her
cynical self for thinking it.

It was this cynicism that spawned distrust of what awaited
her if she consented to the marriage. The very nature of his occupation
required his being programmed and scheduled minute-by-minute. At some point in
the day, he would plug himself in and the machine would take off at the point
where he had left it. There was no getting around it. In this fact, lay the
crux of her dilemma.

At five in the afternoon he plugged himself back into the
whirligig of his business life. She didn't, perhaps wanting to test the limits
of her involvement in her own far less lucrative work.

She deliberately repressed any attention to what he was
saying on the telephone, listening to his voice, but screening out the meaning.
When he hung up, he looked at her, smiled and came forward, naked, and
remarkably beautiful with little hint of aging, except the gray of his hair. He
moved lightly, his penis swinging gently as he came toward her, exhibiting the
quickening weight of desire as he came toward her.

How wonderful, she thought, stretching her arms to receive
him. In a short time, they were ready for yet another imaginative coupling.
There was no position known to man or woman that they had not tried.

"We're going to dinner at Mark Fry's home," he
announced, getting out of bed. He was an Under Secretary of Defense who Fiona
had met on the social circuit, probably at Daisy's house. Hal had mentioned him
in passing as a classmate at West Point, implying that he was important from a
business standpoint as well.

He hadn't asked if she wanted to go, but had assumed her
compliance. But she quickly told herself that it was a perfectly appropriate
acceptance. Hadn't she made plans for social evenings without his permission?
She was being too sensitive on this point, she told herself, fishing for
negatives in obscure shallows.

Before she left the house, she contemplated checking the
messages on her answering machine, then decided against it. This was too
crucial an evening for any extraneous competition or interruptions.

Mark Frey and his wife Kitty lived in a large colonial
style house in Northern Virginia. Frey was a tall man who, although the same
age as Hal, looked older, more worn. His wife Kitty, was on the pudgy side,
with a hairdo that lay high on her head, harking back to a bygone era. Her
round face and ample chins and dimples made her look like an overage kewpie
doll.

She had a deep southern accent, which called attention to
her ingratiating soft effortless charm. The manner in which she offered them
drinks, the eagerness of her look and the flush of her cheeks, pushing her
perfect martinis with such fanfare, seemed to hint at her special enjoyment of
the product.