by Warren Adler
"It seems obvious to me," Madeline said. "I think maybe it's time to terminate this inquisition."
"That would imply you have something to hide, Mrs. Shipley." Gail prodded.
"This woman is relentless," Madeline said, her temper rising.
"Is that question inappropriate, Sergeant?" Gail asked Fiona.
"You're free not to answer, Mrs. Shipley." Fiona said, watching the storm clouds gather, deciding, for the moment, to run for shelter.
"Why thank you kind cop," Madeline said sarcastically, cutting a glance at her husband, as if she was disappointed that he had not come to her defense. "But if you're burning to know, I was probably the object of my mother-in-law's resentment. It was perfectly understandable. I was encroaching on her turf, her only son, apple of her eye. She was once exclusively his trusted confidant, supporter and affectionate friend, a good, although overly protective and possessive mother. I understood that. So did she. It was predictable from the beginning that there would be tension between us." She stopped abruptly and turned to her husband. "Why am I answering this baloney?"
"I really think you're going beyond the bounds of propriety, Officer Prentiss," Shipley said in his best modulated, politically soothing voice.
"In other words," Madeline sneered. "My husband would be too polite to say it.... its pure rubbish."
"We are searching for motive here," Gail snapped.
"Motive," Madeline erupted." This is intimidation. Are you trying to destroy us?"
Fiona recognized the paranoia that always lay beneath the surface of a politician's psyche, in this case, the two-headed Hydra of a political juggernaut. Each knew their role well. Madeline the outspoken, William the polite brilliant diplomatic gentlemen. All orchestrated and rehearsed. Even now, in this moment of tension, Fiona felt it, knew it like she knew the tiny mole on her left breast.
"We are seeking a killer here, Governor," Gail reiterated, reciting once again the homicide mantra, superseding all.
"Who is this arrogant Amazon?" an irate Madeline Newton cried, turning to her husband.
Gail offered a knowing smile, as if she had been waiting for just such a reaction.
"Well now we understand each other," Gail said.
"This black bitch is baiting me, William," Madeline said between clenched teeth.
"Madeline!" the Governor cried.
Something was seeping out of Madeline Newton that was vindictive, nasty, out of control. Fiona watched Gail's burnished face, the eyes behind the cheekbone starting to fire up again as they had done earlier in the Eggplant's office. She'll go over the edge, Fiona thought, frightened for her partner. She reached out and pinched Gail's arm, hard, painful enough to shock her into repression.
"Alright. Alright." Madeline shouted, reacting to her husband's rebuke. The sharp tone seemed more effective to hold back Gail than Fiona's gesture. "She pushed me. It's not the way it sounds. I haven't got a bigoted bone in my body. Hell, I'm show biz." She sighed. "The hidden accusation was unnerving, but I suppose it's just your technique. I was in a movie once..."
She quickly gathered her composure and smiled a contrived sunny smile, carefully constructed to disarm and she showed teeth that were actually glistening around her pink limpid lips. "I played a woman who murdered her husband and they got me to confess. Gene Landers played the cop. His character hit just the right button." She laughed a throaty laugh. "It was just like sex. My character melted." Madeline Newton was well known for her earthiness. She appeared suddenly transformed.
She turned to Gail, who had, with some effort, calmed down.
"You pushed the wrong button, Officer. I have a short fuse."
"Let's get back on the track," Fiona said, hoping that this was the end of the confrontation.
"Let me just clear the air on one point," Shipley said. Above all, image, Fiona thought. For a politician, nothing is personal. Everything is politics. "Mother admired Madeline, her success, her glamour, her enormous popularity." He reached out and caressed his wife's hand. Fiona watched her fingers curl around his. "There was tension, of course. You could invent a thousand reasons why. Mothers and sons. That's a complex relationship, especially if the son is fatherless from birth, an only child. Such things happen, even in politics. Read history. FDR's overbearing mother, for example. And the alienation of her daughter in law."
It wasn't odd at all that he was invoking Presidential politics. Fiona knew that was where his head was.
"I'm putting up with this," Shipley continued, "because I want you to get it in perspective. I loved my mother. Going through this, knowing what happened to her is ... well ... hell on earth. It is the worst thing that has ever happened to me in my life. The worst. Yes, we would like to get to the bottom of the horror, to find out who was responsible for mother's death. Both of us want this resolved. And quickly. Neither of us relishes being a tabloid figure of ridicule. We know what that can do to a public image." He looked pointedly at Fiona. "Poor Madeline has been the target of these idiots for years. Deb Shipley dies to become a ghost haunting Maddy. Can't you see it just? Superstar Glad She Died."
"Way Clear for Maddy to Take Charge in White House," Madeline said. "You don't just shrug these things off. They penetrate."
"We understand," Fiona said, taking in Gail with another quick glance. The look in her eye was worrisome again.
"Find the person that set it up," Shipley said. That's all I ask. Find him fast. Find the man."
"Or woman," Gail said sharply.
"Again?" Madeline cried, her anger recharging. "I can see it in her eyes. What's with you girl? Cool out."
The reversion to street talk, meant to disarm, only exacerbated the situation. Gail obviously perceived it as racially patronizing and exploded.
"Spoiled white bitch," Gail ejaculated.
"I don't believe this," Madeline cried.
"You're going too far, officer," Shipley said. "I've been very patient to this point. Frankly, you've crossed the boundary. I can have your badge for this."
Fiona shot Gail a hard rebuking glance of futility.
"You're out of line Gail. Wait for me in the car."
Fiona sensed reluctant contrition. The venom that had been accumulating had burst out of its containment. Gail stood up to her full height, still swollen with indignation.
"Gail!" Fiona cried. "Enough."
"Okay. Okay." She sucked in a deep breath and held up two hands in front of her. "I'm sorry, okay."
She turned and walked regally out of the room. When she was gone, Fiona shrugged and offered an explanation.
"We're only human. Tension builds. She's been under a strain. She's a fine person, a good cop. This is an aberration." Fiona groped for some logical excuse, but finding none said simply: "It happens in our business."
"We were trying to be cooperative," Shipley said.
"We shouldn't have allowed this William," Madeline retorted. "Let your guard down with these people and they'll pull out their knives."
"She's not like that, Mrs. Shipley," Fiona protested.
"Like what?"
Fiona searched for an answer that would not set her off.
"Over the top," Fiona shrugged. "She probably needs counseling. It's not uncommon in our work."
"Big time," Madeline said imperiously. She turned to her husband. "Excuses notwithstanding, Sergeant, I think her conduct is actionable. It was rude, aggressive, antagonistic and highly unprofessional."
"My wife has a point," the Governor said.
"She did apologize," Fiona said. "I hope you can show some understanding."
"Well now," Madeline said. "We've become the culprits in this little charade."
"Look, Mrs. Shipley," She turned from her to the Governor and back. "There's no need for this to go beyond the confines of this room. These incidents can backfire."
"Is that a threat, Sergeant?" Madeline snapped.
Fiona shrugged and turned to the Governor.
"I'm trying to be reasonable, Governor. You
know my background. I understand your world. If you initiate action against her, you'll be bringing up the obvious. Things were said here in anger..."
"More threats," Madeline cried.
"Please, darling," the Governor pleaded. "Let's leave well enough alone."
"You let people get away with things and it comes back to haunt you," Madeline pressed. She stood up and paced the room, settling in front of the fire, where she continued to glare at Fiona.
"Let's sum this up, Fiona," the Governor said." Fact is, I don't think we can be of much help in any event. Mother ran her life the way she saw fit. I loved her dearly and will miss her terribly for the rest of my life. She was, indeed, my inspiration. I can also say for both of us that she respected Madeline and Madeline had a deep and abiding respect for her. Strains there were. Natural strains. But hardly relevant in the context of these events. Nevertheless, Fiona, we both stand ready to cooperate with your investigation to the best of our ability."
He spoke in a soothing cadence, but it was unquestionably an exit speech by a very fine political actor and after it was delivered he stood up forcing Fiona to do likewise. The interview had gone badly and she wondered if they had learned anything of value. So there were strains between Madeline Newton and her mother-in-law. In the absence of any evidence, that was hardly grounds for any inordinate suspicion.
"Thank you for your help," Fiona said, putting out her hand. The Governor took it and and pumped it strongly. Fiona glanced toward Mrs. Shipley, who averted her eyes. "I hope we can let the other matter rest," Fiona said, then turned and left the room.
"Clayton," Shipley said. "Show the officer out.
"She's waiting in the car," Clayton said as Fiona followed him to the door. His voice, she noted, was soft, an unlikely sound in what was a fierce looking face, expressionless, probably intentionally so, for greater effect. He was huge, blotting out the light ahead as he moved forward, with remarkable effortless grace, down the long hallway toward the front door.
"Football, right?" Fiona asked.
"Redskins."
"Clayton," Fiona said remembering. "The granite wall. Offensive tackle." Seven eight years ago, she calculated. The Skins had a good two-year run. She seemed to recall an injury, vertebra, something with the back.
"Got that right," Clayton turned to look at her then continued on.
"Still protecting the quarterback," Fiona said. Only it wasn't football and there were two of them. Clayton nodded his response.
"Been with them long?"
"Since the first campaign," Clayton mumbled as they moved out into the bright April sun. From where she stood, Fiona could see the incredibly beautiful rolling hills of the hunt country stretching into infinity. The air was tinged with the scent of the quickening earth and the oddly pleasant pungency of horse manure.
"Good duty?"
"No complaints."
She turned toward him, looking upward into his dark face.
"Talkative guy."
His expression softened somewhat and his lips curved in a thin smile.
"Talk is not in my resume."
Fiona shrugged and walked toward the car and what was sure to be an uncomfortable drive back to Washington.
CHAPTER 9
They remained silent along Route 66, a good forty-five minutes of solid silence. Gail drove with a heavy foot, fifteen miles above the limit.
Fiona assumed it was her way of letting off steam. She made no comment not wanting to start the inevitable conversation on a note of rebuke. She chose to wait instead until she had time to turn over in her mind Gail's probable responses, all of them emotional and certainly race-based and essentially unarguable.
In her years with the Department Fiona had been through every conceivable scenario concerning the unavoidable issue of race. She knew, or thought she knew, all the racial hot buttons, all the hidden sensitivities, conflicts and motives, running the gamut from pride to paranoia. She had accepted the political conditions of the job and determined to remain open, understanding and sympathetic.
In her heart and soul, she was determined to remain color-blind, often invoking the ideas expressed so admirably by Martin Luther King about people being judged on the content of their character and not the color of their skin. Unfortunately, it was an idea currently in disfavor, not because of its obvious and inherent truth, but because of the fact that the black American dream was, for many, still far from the reality. Yet she was no pushover when it came to resisting the inevitable hostility of some of her colleagues who saw the enemy in every white face.
She knew, too, that she was a lightening rod of disputation on a number of obvious counts. She was a multiple minority, white, a woman, attractive, of an obviously upper economic strata and, by birthright, a stitch in the social fabric of Washington's elite. A very conspicuous white flower misplaced, some would say, in a jet black bower.
When confronted, which was on a regular basis, she had developed a line of formidable defensive verbal weapons, often in street vernacular. There was little in the way of what was legally or departmentally actionable that she had not been exposed to and that included most permutations of sexual, gender or racial insult. But she had vowed never to take the dubious step of initiating legal proceedings, which she thought demeaning and destructive. Human nature, she she felt certain, had its own sure way of handling such matters.
Deftly she had made her personal stand on these issues and she held a deserved reputation among her colleagues that to screw around with Fiona FitzGerald was to risk the slice of a serrated wounding tongue and, at times, in the case of men, a purpling kick in the privates. But whatever minds and hearts she had won among her colleagues, and there were plenty, it was based on her skill and competence as a homicide detective. She had built a deserved reputation as someone who could cut to the quick and leave the extraneous and emotional sideshows to others.
She had often discussed these issues with her confidante, father figure and guru, Dr.Benson, and had built her strategy and work philosophy on the rock of his Cajun wisdom. When confronted with the grim reaper, he told her often, the blade did not discriminate against race or creed, gender, economic circumstances, regional or geographic differences, religion or membership in a specific tribe, clan or nationality and, especially, did not distinguish between good and evil.
Like it or not, he had intoned often, we are all siblings, related creatures of molecular similarity designed through evolutionary atomization or divine will ... take your pick. The manner of creation had no bearing on the result.
In fact, she enjoyed the contention and the glory of her life in this place, the challenge of confronting the insult, the untangling of webs of lies and deception, and the excitement involved in dismantling mysteries. A private fantasy was that she was the star of a great morality drama, played out against the Greek chorus of the weird Capitol city of the fabulous America.
It was exactly such revelations, explanations and arguments, she told herself as if waking from a reverie, that she must convey to Hal Perry. Unfortunately their eloquence came at odd times, like now, sliding into her consciousness obliquely, usually when he was not around, nor did she feel she could, when push came to shove, really do justice to the idea that described her work as equal in importance and challenge to his.
"Alright Gail," she said abruptly, pulling herself back into present tense, as Gail the skyline of Washington drew near, "Let's get it out in the open."
Gail's nostrils dilated.
"You may not like what you hear," she muttered. Fiona could see that she was spoiling for further confrontation, smoldering embers waiting for the puff a fresh angry breeze.
"That's a given."
Gail seemed to suck in a deep breath. Obviously what was coming was the result of deep thinking and agitation on her part.
"You heard her. The woman is a bigoted bitch."
"You pushed her. She overreacted. Besides, we're not here to fight bigotry. I had my hands full just to stop them from
going after your ass, Gail."
"Let them. I'll blow them out of the water. Hell, Fi, you're my witness. She called me an arrogant Amazon and a black bitch. Did you want me to stand there and take it?"
"You provoked her. And you gave her back in kind."
"I did, didn't I?" Gail smiled. "Good. Maybe I should be the one to initiate charges."
"Christ, Gail. We're talking about the wife of the Governor of Virginia. She backed off. And she's probably not as bad as she sounded."
"Birds of a feather," Gail muttered.
"Come on Gail. Get off that kick. We've got enough on our plate without this race hubris. Let it go. And let's hope they do. It's a sideshow."
"Not to me. There's a bigger picture here. And I'm not talking about the good Governor and his uppity egotistical trophy wife." Her anger was starting to accelerate again.
"Bring it down Gail. Enough venting for one day."
Her words seemed to have found their mark. Gail, seemed to fight herself to regain some equilibrium. Suddenly she smiled broadly and shook her head.
"I guess I did lose my cool," Gail sighed.
"To put it mildly."
"But two wrongs don't make a right."
"Now we're getting into clichés."
"What I mean to say is that there is an institutional canard embedded in our police culture. It's a knee-jerk reaction. Suspicion is heavily weighted on the black side of the equation. We are too quick to assume that a black person did it."
"There could be some truth to that," Fiona agreed, determined to be compliant. Above all she wanted to preserve her relationship with Gail, both as friend and colleague. "Inasmuch as the District of Columbia is statistically more weighted on the black side, I think you might get a much different take on the issue if you checked out Minneapolis for example or cities in Montana, Wyoming or Utah for starters. In Oklahoma you might come up with Indians as the weighted group."
"I don't live in those places," Gail said.
Fiona paused, trying to offer the most studied response she was capable of.