by Warren Adler
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.
CHAPTER 19
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.
"No," Roy cried, stepping forward and reaching for her. With a quick thrust, Gail reached out and swiftly restrained him. He struggled briefly, then quit.
"What's going on here?" Fiona cried finally getting one of the paintings outside of the car and leaning it toward the light.
"My God."
It was a lush nude, remarkably life-like and detailed, clearly sexual, the legs parted, almost pornographic in its depiction of the female form. The subject's eyes glazed with sensuality as she reclined expectantly on a bed. There was little doubt about the identity of the model. The woman was a much younger version of Deb Shipley.
"You painted this, Roy?" Fiona asked, stunned by the revelation.
Roy had lowered his head to evade her glance.
"Not bad," Fiona whispered.
Roy lifted his head, his eyes viewing her coldly.
"Of course I painted them."
Fiona moved quickly throug
h the process of sliding out the other paintings, leaning them against the outside of the Cadillac. More of the same. Deb Shipley posed in ways that reminded Fiona of the gymnastic and clearly sexual nudes of the sculptor Rodin. There was another curious detail that Fiona noted. The woman subject was not frozen into a particular age. Indeed, one of the smaller pictures uncovered was clearly of an older woman with a well-preserved body.
The paintings revealed a great deal more than was immediately apparent. The artist.... it was still difficult to identify this shabby broken man as the creator of these paintings ... was obviously moved and wildly appreciative of the woman's charms.
To her unschooled eye, the paintings were extraordinary. Fiona envied the subject and could secretly understand that the model in each pose clearly illustrated robust and explosive sensuality.
Roy watched her with a sense of resignation as she inspected the paintings.
"They're not signed, Roy," she said. Although she hadn't meant to, her observation seemed to be question their authenticity as Roy's work.
"On the back," he said, his artist's pride stirred.
Fiona looked behind one of the pictures. There it was in neat little letters. Roy Parker and the date.
A quick survey of the backs of the paintings confirmed what the paintings themselves revealed. They covered a span of many decades.
"So now you know," Roy muttered.
"Know what?" Fiona asked. She knew she was being deliberately ingenuous. Was Deb Shipley more than just a model for Roy Parker's painting? Considering the intimacy of the paintings it was a good bet.
Roy shrugged and let the question hang in the air.
"May we put her back...?" Roy asked, as if somehow her exposure was a violation of the woman's modesty, which it was. Fiona and Gail exchanged glances, then they stacked the paintings in the back seat where they had been. They had taken the ignition keys. Fiona was at that moment uncertain about their present fate.
"Where were you taking them, Roy?" Fiona asked.
"Away from here. From them. Those people who plan to sell everything."
"But where?"
"A storage place. I've made arrangements."