Death of a Washington Madame (14 page)

"That's the way it's done," Fiona said.
"Show displeasure. Make your wishes known. Leave the dirty work to
others."

"Well?" the Eggplant said fixing his gaze on
Gail.

Gail looked at Fiona, then at the Eggplant.

"Are you giving me the option, Chief?"

He nodded. Fiona knew that it was truly the unstated, but
powerful, racial bond at work here. The Eggplant, however, knew how to operate
on the razor's edge of intimidation. He understood, just as Shipley understood,
the subtle value of "oblique."

"What do you think Fi?" Gail asked.

"You know my opinion, Gail. I want you with me,"
It was, of course, the expected and sincere answer. "But I still think you
could do with some counseling."

"Good advice," the Eggplant said. He had often
recommended such a course of action for people under his command. Job pressure
in police work was far more intense and rough on the psyche than the pay might
suggest.

"I'll do that Chief."

"Only you can be the judge of your own sense ... of
balance." Fiona grappled with her own concept of evasion. She deliberately
avoided the race issue, which had obviously driven Gail off the track.

"Are you really telling me it's my decision,
Chief?" Gail asked. "You could be sticking your neck out."

"I've done that often enough. Besides, until someone
says otherwise, I'm still Captain of Homicide and, aside from some stupid
actions and even stupider remarks, I'm not going to toss you in the crapper.
Not yet." He pointed a finger at her." But this I'll tell you
Prentiss. You are on one short leash."

Gail grew pensive for a few moments as they both watched
her. Fiona clearly understood the challenge that faced her. And the Eggplant.
And every member of their race in every occupation, every situation. But it was
particularly evident in police work in any major city with a large black
population. It was an endless battle with no truce in sight. Good guy blacks
against bad guy blacks. In the District of Columbia that was the statistical
reality.

For her part, Fiona felt no ethnic allegiance. She'd just
as easily put a collar on a white Irish American woman as a black person of any
gender, it was a non-issue. Bad was bad. Crime was crime. Evil was evil. There
was a single standard. Without such indifference to race, gender, and what used
to be called creed, it was impossible to do the job.

"It's the old baggage," Gail sighed.

Along with the Eggplant, she was intellectually aware of
her situation, but emotionally torn, fighting the eternal battle between pride
and guilt.

"It's probably the thing that brought me into this
business in the first place." Her eyes glazed and she turned away,
sniffled, then rubbed her eyes with the back of one hand, grimacing with sudden
pain. "My Dad.... "She took a deep breath to steady herself. "He
said guilt was a debilitating emotion that could destroy one's self esteem. He
fought it all his life." She was silent for a long moment. "I'm not a
quitter. I want to stay on this one, Chief. I won't you let you down. Let me
prove it to you. And I promise I'll seek counseling."

"No more dumb moves?" the Eggplant warned, his
expression grave. "The world we live in is the world we live in.
Capeesh?"

"Capeesh," Gail whispered.

The Eggplant stood up.

"One more screw up and this ladies' team gets
busted." he said gruffly, in a lame attempt to hide his own emotional
state. Then he turned and left the cubicle.

Fiona felt a lump rise in her throat.

"We owe him Gail," Fiona said.

"I owe him, you mean."

"No more sideshows, hear?"

Gail nodded.

Fiona dropped Gail off at her apartment and got to her own
house after midnight. Too keyed up to sleep, she poured herself a couple of
inches of straight scotch and tried concentrating on an old television movie,
but the images made little sense and she felt slightly unmoored and lonely. She
decided that the only remedy was to call Hal.

She found the number that he had given her and dialed. It
was an 800 number and she had no idea where it would wind up geographically. An
officious woman's voice came on after three rings. The voice made no
announcement of whose number had been called.

"Mr. Perry please," she said.

"Who is calling please?"

"Fiona FitzGerald."

There was a brief pause, as if the woman was hunting for
recognition of her name.

"May I take your number, Ms. FitzGerald?"

Fiona felt her anger rise.

"No. I need to speak with him now."

She wondered if she was being unreasonable. But his words
rang in her mind. "Any time day or night."

"I'm sorry, Ms. FitzGerald. I'll be happy to take your
number."

She started to remonstrate, then muttered a "screw you"
and hung up.

"Corporate wife," she cried into the empty room
as she upended her glass. "No way."

"You look like hell, Gail," Fiona said as Gail
slid in car beside her. She was wearing sunglasses, but beneath the lens Fiona
could see her swollen eye.

"I was hoping you wouldn't notice," she mumbled.
"It wasn't exactly a restful night."

"For me as well," Fiona said. "But I think
I've come up with a game plan."

"Good, Fi. You call the shots."

"You gonna be a good girl like you promised?"
Fiona said, tossing a sideward glance at Gail, hoping for a smile. Gail did not
oblige.

"When she is bad, she is horrid," Gail mumbled,
falling into a long silence. "Don't worry Fi. I'm cool."

"You look it."

Chester Brewer was eighty-five years old and still maintained
a law office in an ancient building on Connecticut Avenue that smelled of dust
and stale cigar smoke.

On the walls of his outer office were faded pictures of him
as a much younger man in the company of various politicians of a bygone era.
There was also a yellowing framed clipping of the younger Brewer in Army
uniform on which was being pinned a Silver Star by General Dwight Eisenhower.

Among the pictures was a framed diploma like certificate
that attested that he had been appointed an Assistant Secretary of the Army by
President Harry S. Truman in 1951. Fiona had called him at his apartment in the
old Kennedy-Warren, once a fashionable residence for big government types,
including Truman when he was Vice-President. It was now what was commonly
called shabby genteel. The old lawyer had agreed to a meeting, but insisted
that it take place at his office.

Everything about the office struck Fiona as a historic
relic including his secretary, a Miss Bronson, according to the wooden
nameplate on her desk. She was an old woman with steel gray hair and sprouts
along her chin. She wore glasses with thick coke bottle lenses. Fiona noted
that she still used an old fashioned IBM Electric. The office seemed not to
have never entered the electronic age. There was no sign of anything even
remotely modern. Even the telephone was a black dial type. She wondered if it
was still operative.

"We only come here once a week," Miss Bronson
said. "There aren't clients anymore. Unfortunately.... "she looked at
her watch. "he can get weird this time of day."

"Why does he come in?"

"Guess it makes him feel that he's still alive. Me,
too, I suppose. I'm his chief cook and bottle washer. As you know the
Kennedy-Warren is a couple of blocks down the street. It's a good excuse for a
walk."

"You live there, too?" Fiona asked.

"In sin," the woman chuckled. "His wife died
thirty years ago. I'm what the kids call his significant other." She
winked. "I prefer mistress."

Chester Brewer, Counselor at Law, received them from behind
a large shiny walnut desk that was completely devoid of any paperwork. Behind
him was a battery of dusty diplomas attesting to his credentials for practice
and his various degrees, including those from Harvard College and Harvard Law School where, according to the diplomas, he was a Doctor of Jurisprudence.

He was a man with a large wrinkled face, a bald pate and,
eyes that seemed almost too faded for sight. He did not stand up to greet them,
but held out a wizened hand which felt cold to the touch, although the squeeze
was firm and the pump oddly vigorous.

He went through what seemed like an elaborate, and endless,
resume of his career, as if it was necessary to prove that he was still
credible as a working lawyer. He informed them about his more than sixty years
in practice, except for brief jaunts in Federal Service. He catalogued an
endless array of committees on which he had served and listed his most
important clients, many of whom had long ago either died or, as corporations,
had been merged out of business.

In deference to his extreme age, Fiona and Gail listened to
the outer limits of their patience until finally Fiona was compelled to
interrupt. She took the direct route trying to foreclose on any detours by the
old man.

"We're here about Mrs. Shipley, Mr. Brewer. Her
behests..."

"Wonderful lady, wonderful. What a terrible tragedy.
Used to throw these great balls in her home. Did you know she was once Washington's most important..."

"Are you the executor of her estate?" Gail
interrupted.

"I am ... I was..." He grew thoughtful for a
moment. "I drew up the papers years ago. It's now in the bank's hands.
Riggs bank. Trust Department. It was my decision, of course." He grew
silent for a long time as if he were reviewing events inside his head.
"Generous woman. Never had to ask her more than once. I had always
believed Deb would outlive me. Terrible tragedy. Did you know...?"

"Was there any reason why she did not appoint her only
son as executor?"

"Reason? He's the beneficiary of a trust. Very well
provided for. Would do anything for that boy, William Shipley, Junior. Junior,
yes. Anything at all. Nothing stopped her. That boy will be President some day,
she told me ad infinitum. She would see to that. Father was a war hero."
He chuckled and shook his head. "Missing in action. Battle of the Bulge.
William Shipley. Named the boy, Junior, but I told you that. Never met the man
but he was quite a hero they tell me. Oh yes, Mrs. Shipley I heard was not very
fond of her son's actress wife, though. Pretty woman. Seen her movies. I used
to do some acting myself. Amateur. I was pretty good in my day. Cut a fine
figure. Did you know....?"

"Did Mrs. Shipley tell you" Fiona asked.
"that she was no very fond of Madeline Newton?"

"Two strong women, met head on. Billy was the
executor, once. That was before he married that woman. She had me redraw the
will when they married. Made Billy sign a waiver not to challenge the estate.
Wasn't gonna let that lady have one wit of her possessions."

"You mean William will get nothing."

"He doesn't need anything. And his wife is rich as
Croesus. People say with that actress behind him there's no stopping him. Did
you know I met every President since Herbert Hoover. Met him as a child. Not
him. Me." His enthusiasm seemed to fizzle for a moment, as if he were
groping to find his place again. "That's what old Deb wanted for him when
she was running the show." He rubbed his chin and shook his head.
"Never sell old Deb short. Woman could make you do things, you never
thought.... "He shook his head again. "Tough as nails. Gets what she
wants in the end, though. I remember...."

"Who will be her heirs?"

"Heirs. Oh yes. Those two who stuck it out with her
all these years."

"Roy Parker and Gloria Carpenter."

"Yes. Those names. Of course Billy gets the heirlooms
if he wants them."

Brewer smiled strangely. Fiona had the impression that the
old man was playing with them, enjoying the attention.

"They get the house, as well?" Gail asked.
"Her two servants."

"Everything. That's what she said. Give them
everything down the middle. That's what she signed. I told her that the day Deb
was found. Mostly for confirmation."

"Told who?"

"The Negro woman."

"Gloria Carpenter?"

"Yes, that's her. Deb made promises. She just wanted
to be sure there were no changes."

"And were there?"

The old man chuckled. The chuckle turned into a cackle,
which then turned into a guffaw. His eyes teared from the effort. He took out a
wrinkled handkerchief wiped his eyes and blew his nose.

"Did I say something funny?" Fiona asked. His
action was incongruous, as if they didn't connect to his remarks.

"Yes," the old man said, bursting into laughter
again.

Fiona and Gail looked at each other, puzzled.

"Old Deb," the old man said. "She was a
rascal at heart."

"Rascal?" Fiona said, more puzzled than ever.
"I'm afraid you'll have to explain yourself."

"Me to know. You to find out."

He was playing with them, Fiona decided. Or was suffering
from the beginning stages of dementia.

"Mr. Brewer," Fiona said, confused and serious.
"We're investigating Mrs. Shipley's brutal murder and rape."

"Rape? That's a good one. Deb never even looked at
another man. I would have given anything.... "Suddenly, he started to
giggle.

At that moment, Miss Bronson limped in holding a glass of
water in a saucer and a vial of pills.

"Time for your medicine, Chester."

She came around the desk, handed him the glass, which shook
precariously in his fingers, then gave him a number of pills one at a time. He
put them in his mouth and washed them down with the water.

"Has he been going silly on you?" Miss Bronson
asked.

Fiona shrugged.

"Happens this time of the day. Actually we only come
in an hour or two. You're the first visitors he's had in months. Sorry about
Mrs. Shipley. She was a pain, but very loyal to Chester. When he had his heart
attack.... well ... she was very generous. Don't know what we would have
done."

After he had taken his pills, Mr. Brewer leaned back in his
chair.

"Where were we?" he asked.

"We were talking about Mrs. Shipley's behest's, Mr.
Brewer?"

"I'm sorry. I can't say. There's client attorney
privileges here,"

It seemed like an odd statement, since he had been very
forthcoming earlier.

"What about the antiques, the art work?" Fiona
asked.

"Have you people a warrant?"

"A warrant? We're not doing a search. This is only an
interview."

"I don't give interviews," Mr. Brewer said.