CHAPTER 3

For the next couple of weeks, Gail and Fiona tried harder, if that was possible. They broke open two domestics, but that didn't count. Domestics were easy. They had prior behavior to go by, men who beat their spouses or girl friends repeatedly, episodes that escalated into murder. With the O.J. thing, spouse beating and murder had entered a new era of awareness as a common event. Solving such cases were invariably gender-neutral requiring no special detective skills.

Neither of them wanted the partnership to be dissolved. They had grown accustomed to each other, and were getting especially proficient at good cop/bad cop interrogation. The two domestics were cracked that way, confession in record time, although that didn't count either.

But what did truly count came early one morning in late April. Fiona and Gail had worked all night following a lead on yet another domestic, where the alleged perpetrator had stabbed his girlfriend to death and disappeared. He was spotted by the sister of the deceased coming out of a blue Buick and going into a large apartment complex in Southeast Washington.

Not knowing which apartment the man was visiting and unwilling to roust people in the complex, the two detectives staked out the car until the man came out sometime after three in the morning. He was arrested without incident protesting his innocence, a given, and by the time he was booked and they were heading home it was nearly dawn.

They drove in Gail's beige Camaro and preceded northward, then cut to the East toward Spring Valley. The car pulled into the circular driveway of Fiona's house just as the sun began to poke above the budding Magnolias Fiona's father had planted to partially screen the house next door.

Bone tired, Fiona gave Gail a good-bye tap on the shoulder and watched as the car kicked up gravel and sped out of the driveway.

She stood for a while studying the facade of the house in the incandescence of the early morning light. Her father had bought the house in the spring of the year he had been elected to his second Senate term. She must have been five or six. It had seemed less of an extravagance then, a fitting home for such a political rising star, a neighborhood of equals, a validation for a shanty Irishman who had burst into the lace curtain firmament. She was determined never to sell it, a treasured heirloom, to be passed down through the generations, except that there was no progeny ... not yet ... perhaps never.

Seeing the house in the glory of the April morning, sun tinting the brick in a rusty glow, trees and shrubs pregnant with burgeoning life, she felt again the renewal of the instinctive drive to propagate. At such moments it, the mating phenomena and its complications rose once again in her mind as a central concern. It was, she knew, the one temptation she had so far resisted for a more permanent relationship with Hal Perry, a subject she did not have the courage to broach, mostly because she feared it would sentence her to the role of Corporate wife for life.

At this moment, she felt needy. And when she felt this way, she found herself reflecting on the shipwreck of her various relationships, assigning blame, mostly to herself, which she knew was over-reacting. At times she berated herself for being too independent, too heavy-handed, too demanding, too romantic, too honest, too analytical, too picky, as her mother had alleged, or the ultimate, too fearful of commitment, always a convenient cop-out.

And yet, men, strong, assertive, potent men were the sugar candy of her life. She loved the whole process, from initial engagement to the skirmishes of flirtation and seduction which led to the inevitable and various acts of sexual congress, all of them, especially the accelerating rhapsody of physical pleasure, the getting and the giving ... the coming and the coming.

Perhaps, she told herself candidly, what she feared most was anything less than variety, an accusation that frightened her. Or was it that old Catholic bugaboo, the echo of her mother's admonitions, which put making love on a level of sinfulness along with theft, lying, even murder, which was an irony in itself.

At times she wished she could scream out at her mother's clinging ghost, which haunted her mind and memory, impossible to exorcise. Fiona was certain that her genes had absorbed molecules of guilt in her mother's womb, marveling often at their enduring power.

She let herself into the house and yielding finally to the strain of exhaustion, unbuttoning and unzipping as she beat a path to her bedroom and fell naked into bed and quickly, thankfully, into oblivion, leaving the question of Hal Perry's offer in dark limbo.

The persistent ring of the telephone blasted into the black tunnel of her dreamless void. Opening her eyes to painful spears of sun, she grabbed for the phone and noted the green digital number. Ten to twelve. Christ! It was the Eggplant's gruff voice, not a sign of apology, hoarse and ominous.

"Here's one we don't need, Sergeant."

"What?"

"Clippings. Data. History. I hate the ones with history."

"What are you talking about Chief?"

"A rich older lady, mid-seventies, stone cold dead, stabbed and possibly raped."

"Raped? Mid-seventies? Real sicky."

"Maid came home after a night out. The uniforms are there waiting, say it's a mess. You take scene FitzGerald. Get Prentiss."

"Where?"

He gave the address. Her heart banged against her chest and her throat constricted.

"Name of Shipley."

He paused, letting the name sink in. When she didn't respond, he spoke.

"You there?"

"Yes."

"Strike a chord. Maybe before your time. The hostess with the mostest."

"I know."

"Get my drift. Mother of the Governor of the old Dominion, mother-in-law of..."

"I know."

"So here it is in your lap, FitzGerald. The team's big chance. Let's shove it to them Fi."

She liked that. Him calling her Fi. She rushed to the bathroom, turned on the shower, then shut it off and moved to the sink. She'd take a whore's bath instead, smiling inwardly at the reference.

She drove at full speed, sirens blazing, portable lights flashing, pushing her memory of Deb Shipley, who she had actually met years ago, the tall lovely beauty who, in her father's day, presided over the best table in Washington and was the star of the Society Pages in the days when Washington newspapers devoted pages to report those events. Her dinners were legendary, right up there with Perle Mesta and Gwenn Cafritz.

She recalled an article in the Washington Post Style section a few months ago."Socialite Shipley Sails in a Calmer Sea," was the oh so clever headline that floated into her memory bank. She was not surprised at the fidelity of the memory since her parents had once taken her to an Easter Reception for Senatorial families at the three-story Shipley mansion where the lady had made an indelible impression.

Concentration embellished the physical memories of that visit, and she saw again in recall the massive great room, two stories high. There was the huge fireplace that could accommodate a standing human, and above it, commanding the room, a painting of a young handsome man in uniform emblazoned with decorations, heroically posed with a cape over his shoulder and in the background, bursts from falling artillery rounds and other imagery of war's chaos.

Fiona had held her cup of pineapple punch in her white-gloved hand and looked up at that painting. Odd, how she could still remember looking up at the young man's face and imagining that the eyes, nuggets of cerulean blue, seemed to move following her. Suddenly, she had felt a trill of fearful panic and had darted off to find her father's comforting hand.

There were other aspects of the room that also impressed herself on Fiona's memory, the profusion of paintings of dogs of many breeds, Shepherds, Collies, Poodles, Rottweilers all beautifully rendered by an expert and glorified in pose and detail. Scattered on surfaces around the room were various bronzes, mostly of dogs and horses.

She remembered other paintings as well, serene scenes of Washington's stately landmarks, the various memorials, the White House, the Capitol, the dome in a sunburst as if to emphasize the spiritual aspects of the structure as well as it's Hellenic lines.

There were photographs, too, scattered over every flat surface, Mrs. Shipley with the various celebrities of the era, even one with her father.

The article in the Post had featured a large color picture of the old lady, posed in that very same room, with the picture of the young heroic warrior in the background. Although the man's identity had not crossed her mind at the time of her visit, the article revealed that it was in actually a portrait of Deb Shipley's husband, reported missing in action in World War II. She recalled references to a handsome dashing Lieutenant who had crossed the Channel in Normandy, had fought through the hedgerows of France only to disappear, which meant disintegrate into dust, in the Battle of the Bulge.

In the newspaper photograph, the aged Mrs. Shipley was wearing her trademark black lace dress, perhaps a perpetual symbol of mourning and fealty, despite the white ruffled high collar. Fiona seemed to remember a sparkling emerald pendant on a gold chain necklace that had completed the public costume. In the photograph of the aged woman it had been replaced by a large cross.

In the woman's face, there still remained vestiges of the old beauty, the high proud cheekbones, the large searching dark eyes, vivid gray blue, set off with black mascara, the smooth ivory complexion, the hair, dyed as black as a moonless night, still parted in the center and brushed back severely, looking vaguely Spanish. And her posture, despite her age, still appeared ramrod straight, aristocratically arrogant. Seated at her side in the photograph looking fiercely protective, was her German Shepherd, identified in the caption as "Marshall".

In the article too, Fiona recalled, were recorded the woman's tart and deprecating remarks, insults really, although vaguely amusing and tolerated only because they came from the mouth of an old dowager type like Deb Shipley. Such aging female institutions, epitomized by the foul mouthed cynicism of such paragons of historical rudeness as the late Alice Longworth Roosevelt, seemed exempt from the constraints of the usual social disciplines of civilized discourse. Their comments had transcended insult and become entertainment.

Deb Shipley's arrogant aphorisms were also duly recorded for posterity in the article and Fiona remembered such gems of dubious accuracy as "Harry Truman picked his nose in public" or "Mamie Eisenhower was drunk by noon and stupefied by teatime." or "That young Kennedy had seduced one of her maids in a hall broom closet while she entertained at a cocktail party given in honor of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor." She had, she told the reporter, "attributed the odd hissing and clanging noises to a fault in the plumbing system."

She was also quoted as saying that "she no longer entertained or went out, living a life of reflection and devotion to God," an observation confirmed by her son at Daisy Hodges party. Her only company, she told the interviewer were her two loyal retainers, a maid and a "manservant," prompting an obvious comparison to Norma Desmond of "Sunset Boulevard" fame.

The writer of the article also made much of Deb Shipley's house, describing its antiques, art works and various eclectic collections, pointing out that "it was still standing in defiance of its deteriorating slum neighbors." Once the neighborhood had been the appropriate backdrop for her moment of stardom.

Despite the spin toward nostalgia, the article delved into the philosophical aspects of the Washington social scene. The writer, showing off her alleged insight, pointed out that the powerful were still magnetized by the rich and visa versa and there was rarely anything more tantalizing than the example of the classic dinner party of peers in full regalia in the old world atmosphere of Deb Shipley's mansion. "The bees of power were dependent on the flowers of society," the article concluded in a purple prose flourish "and Deb Shipley had once provided both the bees and the floral display."

Fiona had passed the architectural relic often in her work. Violent crime had invaded the surrounding neighborhood. It had become a drug bazaar and a killing field. There was a sad elegance about the structure, a relic of another more ordered and decorative time, although it seemed oddly well maintained in the midst of the chaos and ruin of its seedy neighbors.

Nothing in the article or her memory bank could have predicted such a violent end for this towering icon of Washington society.

Gail was waiting in front of her apartment building as Fiona pulled up. Without a word she got in and the car careened, sirens blaring, down Connecticut then east to 16th. As they drove Fiona gave Gail a shorthand account of what she knew about the victim.

"She was the darling of Washington society," Fiona explained. "A genuine Grande Dame."

"Of white society," Gail corrected.

"As represented by the media of the time," Fiona said, taking note of the comment and redefining its meaning, knowing that Gail was, at times, fiercely, even snobbishly, defensive on the subject of "Black Society," its exclusivity and eliteness. Fiona had learned that for Gail it was not a subject to be trifled with and she quickly changed the focus of the conversation.

"Eggplant says it's the make or break case for the team," Fiona said.

"Then let's make it."

Captain Luther Greene, dressed for the occasion in his best media clothes, dark brown suit with a light yellow striped, beige buttoned down shirt and subtle yellow patterned tie, shoes spit shined, freshly shaven and wearing the appropriate concerned expression, stood inside Deb Shipley's bedroom surveying the crime scene.

The body, already showing signs of rigor, lay on the blood-soaked mattress of her elaborate carved wood four-poster bed. The lower part of the body was naked and configured in such a way as to suggest rape. A white satin nightgown, soaked with blood from neck to mid-section had been rolled above the waist.

Beside the body was a comforter, also bloodstained, but in such a way to suggest that it had been thrown over the body after the killing.

The woman's eyes were open, still reflecting the terror crazed look of her last moments. The face, a mask of death, seemed more youthful than the body and on closer inspection Fiona noted the tiny scars of the surgeon's knife along the hairline near the temples. The woman's trademark hair, as suspected, had been died jet-black.

The bedroom was large. On both sides of the bed were antique end tables, on one of which was a glass in a saucer and the dregs of what looked like milk, which coated the glass.

Above the bed was a large painting of a young woman in jodhpurs caressing the neck of a horse. In the background of the painting was a meadow on which were pictured a gaggle of hunting beagles ready for the sound of tallyho. The woman, obviously, was a younger version of Mrs. Shipley, extraordinarily beautiful in the full flush of youth. There were also other paintings in the room, mostly pastoral scenes of vaguely familiar country in various seasonal stages.

To one side of the room was yet another large painting, this one of a seated figure of a little boy wearing a black velvet jacket over a white shirt with a Buster Brown collar. In short pants, he was pink cheeked and cherubic and wore an amused expression, just short of a sunny smile.

It was the kind of stylish painting once fashionable among the very rich which Fiona remembered seeing in the homes of her wealthy friends. Son and heir was the title that jumped into Fiona's mind. Undoubtedly, it was of William Shipley Jr., aged four or five.

A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling giving the room a baroque feeling embellished by two massive heavily varnished twin still lifes of what seemed to Fiona of Italian origin, depicting elaborate exotic flowers against a dark background. To one side of the room was a sitting area with a small couch and two chairs facing a round marble topped low table.

On the wall next to the sitting area was a large breakfront inside of which was a display of porcelain figures. Various pieces of polished antique furniture graced the room on which were framed pictures of Mrs. Shipley with a number of past Presidents and Washington celebrities. Others recorded the life of her son, from babyhood to his gubernatorial inaugural in which he was shown taking the oath of office.

Fiona and Gail had secured the scene and Flanagan's techies had already arrived and were busy with their chores, dusting for prints, taking pictures, gathering and bagging potential evidence. The maid and manservant, both older, obviously retainers of long standing, shaken and pale with apprehension waited in the kitchen in the company of one of the uniforms. Fiona had already talked to them briefly.

"Entry?" the Eggplant asked, shorthand for how did the killer enter the area. It was always a remarkable transformation when the Chief appeared at a crime scene. Normally harried, often emotional and subject to temper outbursts, in the presence of a homicide scene he became extremely subdued and spare and direct in his speech. He maintained this composure even when he faced the media, before whom he was determined to project an image of authority, competence, self-assurance and seriousness. The man, after all, was campaigning for the top police post and Fiona suspected that he had spent hours practicing this assumed role before a mirror.

From experience, Fiona knew the form in which she was to provide the information. Just the facts, Ma'am.

"Broke in a door that leads to the basement," Fiona replied. "Slid his hand between the bars, broke the glass and opened the door from the inside."

"Between the bars?"

"The perp apparently had small hands," Fiona said.

"A kid?"

"Maybe."

"And then?"

"He moved through the basement then up the stairs to a door that opened near the staircase on the ground floor. Then he moved along a rear corridor to the kitchen then to a door that took him up the back stairs," Fiona continued, reading from her notes. "These big old houses have backstairs, originally to accommodate servants of the upstairs, downstairs variety. He proceeded up these stairs, onto the second floor, to the master bedroom, where the victim was lying in bed, reading. Looks like multiple stab wounds and a rape."

The Eggplant shook his head in disgust.

"Time?"

"Would have to be sometime after ten last night. The man who worked for her said she usually got into bed at ten. He always brought her a glass of hot milk around ten. She was in bed, he told me, reading the bible. She always read the bible before she went to sleep. The book was on the floor." She pointed to the glass and saucer.

"Was she alone in the house?"

"No. The man sleeps downstairs in a room off a corridor next to the entrance to the back stairs. The maid was off."

"You say he slept near the back stairs. Didn't he hear anything?"

"He's pretty deaf, wears hearing aids on both ears which he takes off when he goes to sleep."

Fiona had followed the path of entry from the basement level, then up the back stairs, which were thickly carpeted. She had tested the possibility of squeaks or vibrations that might have awakened the man, but found the steps extremely quiet.

"And the maid?"

"The maid, a black woman, takes Thursdays off. Visits her sister's family in Southeast Washington. A nephew drove her home late. He dropped her off and she let herself in with a key. She saw and heard nothing amiss, went directly to her room on the ground floor in the back of the house, and went to bed. She got up around seven, prepared the breakfast, and went upstairs about eight with a tray to Mrs. Shipley's room. She calls her Madame. House is run with old-fashioned rituals. Anyway, she went up, put the tray on a table, then opened the blinds."

"Like in those old black and white movies," Gail interjected.

"Opens the blinds, sees what she sees, screams. Roy is up by then, his hearing aids in place. He hears her screams, runs up."

"Roy?"

"That's his name," Fiona said. "Like the maid, Gloria, another old retainer. Roy's the one who called 911. Brought the uniforms."

"Who covered her?"

"Probably him," Fiona said. "They're both still shaken. We'll talk to them some more when they calm down. We did manage to get a few details."

"Anything taken?"

"According to the maid, everything seems in its place, except for the big gold cross she wore around her neck."

Fiona looked toward the body and the Eggplant's gaze followed.

"She said the victim wore this big gold cross around her neck, even when she went to sleep. As hysterical as she was, she noted this. I checked. He apparently didn't pull it off, but removed it by slipping it over her head. Maybe he found religion after he did it. An epiphany."

"Nothing else? No money? No jewelry?"

"Her pocketbook was opened, the contents spilled. Nothing in it but lipstick, change purse with a few pennies. No wallet. The maid told us that she kept the wallet in her desk drawer. There's a small office adjoining the bedroom. It was still there."

"And no jewelry missing?"

"Nada. As far as we know now."

"Nothing missing in any of the other parts of the house?"

"Hard to tell, but the maid doesn't think so and there's no evidence that the perp went into any other rooms. Just here, backstairs, basement and out the way he came in."

"What's upstairs?"

"One additional floor, the third. The maid said she never goes up there. No one has for years. Just closed guest rooms."

"And nothing taken," the Eggplant mused, shaking his head and directing his gaze through the windows. Looking out, Fiona could see TV crews setting up their equipment and a knot of reporters forming on the street in front of the entrance to the house. The Eggplant turned and faced her.

"No security system?"

"Oh they have one, but they haven't activated it in years."

"In this neighborhood?"

"According to Roy," Fiona said shooting a glance at Gail. "They had Marshall."

"Marshall?"

"The dog. He apparently died last week," Fiona said.

"Better than any security system," Gail said. "They probably got used to having him around and let the security system slide."

"Actually," Fiona said. "According to Roy, they haven't had any trouble. Roy thinks it's because the drug dealers don't want anything to call attention to the neighborhood."

"I don't buy that," Gail said. "More like a big house such as this is perceived as being well protected."

"Until last night," the Eggplant said, shaking his head.

"We're wrapping. This baby is ready for the freezer," Flanagan interrupted. He was a florid faced man with red hair starting to go gray. He had been with MPD for more than twenty-five years and was fighting the idea of retirement. Everyone knew he was a man who articulated the prejudices of the past, and since it was a given, he was tolerated affectionately, a kind of outspoken bigot whose speech carried a message of prejudice of which there was no evidence in his actions.

The Eggplant nodded and two techies came in carrying a stretcher and prepare for the removal of the body of Mrs. Shipley.

Fiona had already called Dr. Benson's office. He was the Medical Examiner, her closest friend in the Department. She requested a high priority autopsy.

"Any theories?" the Eggplant asked Fiona.

"Too early, chief," Fiona said.

"We need this one, Sergeant," the Eggplant reminded her.

"That's why we're not going to sing songs unless we know the lyrics." She looked at Gail who nodded her head in solidarity.

Fiona's mind, at this point, was resisting theories. She knew it would be counter-productive to move too quickly and start down the wrong path. All they had was that a person, probably of small stature, had stabbed to death an old woman and apparently raped her and stolen her cross and, perhaps, nothing else. Motive, motive. It was already a mantra going through her thoughts.

Suddenly they heard a commotion in front of the house. Looking out, Fiona saw William Shipley and his wife emerge from a black limousine. The Governor looked pale and somber. Madeline, in high Hollywood mourning style wore large sunglasses and a kerchief on her head. Led by a large burly black man, who performed intimidating blocking maneuvers through the crowd, the two moved silently through the knot of chirping reporters.

"Don't put her in the bag," the Eggplant said to Flanagan. "Get her downstairs quick. I don't want him to see this mess. Tell the uniforms to clear them for downstairs only. We'll get an ID of the victim from the Governor."

Gail barked the order into her walkie-talkie.

"I'll be down in a minute," the Eggplant said, turning back to absorb the scene.

The men discreetly laid out the body with a view to modesty, then put it on a stretcher and covered it with a blanket. Fiona led the way down the stairs to the hallway, an ornate area dominated by a huge Rock Crystal chandelier. Shipley and his wife, following in the wake of the huge black man, came in the door stopping as the stretcher reached the landing.

"It's alright," Fiona said to the uniform who manned the door.

"Him, too?" the uniform asked, meaning the large man, obviously a bodyguard for the couple. He was big, thick-necked, fierce-looking and unsmiling and tailored to hide what was undoubtedly an Uzi beneath his jacket. Probably an ex-lineman for a pro-football team, Fiona speculated, serving the Governor and his wife as a combination bodyguard, watchdog and professional intimidator.

"Absolutely," Madeline Newton said, addressing herself to the bodyguard. "Clayton is indispensable." She looked toward the black man, whose expression was impassive, her eyes hidden behind large sunglasses. It seemed obvious that she called the shots in terms of Clayton's duties.

Fiona nodded, despite this minor violation of the integrity of the crime scene.

"I'm sorry Governor," Fiona said, appropriately somber. "Too bad we have to meet again under these circumstances." Shipley nodded, obviously shaken and grieving. Madeline, acknowledging Fiona, bit her lip and said nothing.

Fiona lowered the blanket and uncovered Mrs. Shipley's face. Thankfully, one of the techies had closed the terror-stricken eyes and smoothed down the hair. The dead woman's expression seemed serene. Fiona dispensed with the official jargon of identification.

"Mama," Shipley whispered hoarsely, his eyes glistening with tears. His wife's hand gripped him under his arm, offering support. She whispered some soothing words of solace into his ear. A sob erupted in his chest. "I can't believe it. Not Mama."

Fiona steeled herself against showing any emotion, then nodded and the men carrying the stretcher covered the victim's face and proceeded with the body, maneuvering it out the front door. She could see the flash of cameras begin as the body moved toward a waiting ambulance.

"This way," Fiona said to the Governor and his wife, leading them into the great room. Clayton followed. It had seemed to be the logical place for them to talk. Fiona, until arriving at the crime scence, hadn't been in that room for more than twenty-five years.

She scoped it quickly, absorbing details. There it was over the fireplace, the painting of the young soldier. And, of course, the dog paintings and sculptures, all in exactly the same places where they had remained, fixed in her memory. The photographs, too, seemed to have been frozen into place, the people depicted in them now even more old fashioned, their clothes and hairstyles quaintly out of date.

Time had removed much of the gloss of that first impression. The furniture looked shoddy and there was a tomb-like feeling about the room and a nose tingling smell of decay. She remembered how awesome and mysterious the room had appeared to the eyes of the little girl. It was still awesome and mysterious, but in a more haunted way, as if it had aged into infirmity.

"Can we get you anything?" Fiona asked. The Governor and his wife shook their heads in the negative. Both seemed stunned and sat down side by side on a couch like grieving robots. Clayton stood nearby, his guardian eyes in perpetual motion.

"Why ... why would anyone want to kill mother?" Shipley asked haltingly, his expression puzzled.

"It makes no sense," Madeline sighed.

"We haven't come to that yet, Governor."

"Was it...?" Shipley swallowed, as if tamping down hysteria. ".... Was it bad?"

"I don't think she suffered," Fiona said, deliberately avoiding the revelation of possible rape, which surely would have contradicted her assertion. There was no point in speculating otherwise. "She was stabbed to death."

"Oh my God," Madeline blurted.

"We'll know more after the autopsy."

"More?" Shipley asked.

"You know," Fiona made a quick course correction. "Time of death, nature of the weapon, how quickly ... routine things."

"Must she have an autopsy?" Shipley asked. "I hate to see her..."

"She's dead, Governor. She is beyond pain. But the body has much to tell us." She was quoting Dr. Benson, her friend and ally, the coroner, who expounded often on the eloquence of analyzed remains.

"We want her killer, William," Madeline said, shaking her head and sighing. "What a world we live in."

"She should have moved from here long ago," Shipley said. "I begged her. She could have lived at our Middleburg place. It was so.... well stupid. Take a look out there...."

"Roy said they never had any trouble. None at all. Ever."

"Roy's an old fool," the Governor snapped with a sudden burst of anger. "She should have gotten rid of him long ago. He's senile for crying out loud."

"He was very devoted," Madeline said gently. "Devotion from her retainers extremely important to her. Gloria, too." Gloria was the maid's name.

"Too much so," the Governor muttered.

"Did you know that Marshall had died?" Fiona asked. Gail was standing nearby, watching the scene, but not participating.

The Governor nodded.

"Roy told me that last week. They put great faith in Marshall. As is obvious from this room, mother was always a dog person." Fiona and Gail exchanged amused glances. "Dogs, she thought, would always protect her. Fact is that no one could come into this house without Marshall, or his many predecessors, reacting vociferously."

"Did it concern you, Governor? I mean the fact that he was gone. You did know about their security system?"

The Governor nodded, then shook his head.

"It was put in years ago. Frankly with Marshall gone I thought Roy would have the sense to activate it." He clicked his tongue. "I guess mother should have reminded him. Or Gloria.... "He sucked in a deep breath. "Or me."

"Don't tear yourself up about this William," Madeline said. "You can't blame yourself." She took off her sunglasses, briefly showing her incredibly beautiful violet eyes, then put them back on again.

The Eggplant came in. Fiona did the introductions.

"We'll find out who did this, Governor," he said, glancing at Fiona. "We've got our best team on it."

"I'm sure," Madeline said with an unmistakable trace of sarcasm. She smiled thinly at Fiona.

"Not that it will do much good. Not for Mama." Shipley lowered his eyes and nodded his head, as if he were about to be overcome with emotion. Suddenly, he raised his eyes and turned to his wife. "I want a very private funeral. Just a few friends. We have this crypt in Virginia. More like a memorial to Dad."

As if to underline the idea, he turned his head and looked up at the picture of the young soldier. He was incredibly handsome and self-assured in his heroic pose. "Missing in France in '44. Before I was born. Mother never remarried."

His eyes glistened suddenly. "Gives you an idea of her sense of loyalty. When Mama was committed, she was committed." He looked briefly toward his wife who turned away leaving an unmistakable impression of contempt. It was the kind of look that set off an alert antenna. And Fiona, in her investigative mode, was alert to every nuance of gesture and expression, however minor.

Instantly, the look provided a deep glimpse into the relationship of Madeline Newton with the murdered Mrs. Shipley. Strained, would be the operative analysis. William Shipley was the adored only child; son and clone of the immortal loved one. From where she sat, Fiona could see more pictures of Shipley, infant, boy and man.

As the pictures in the bedroom had demonstrated, William Shipley, Jr. was clearly the dominant person in his mother's mind. That obvious fact, coupled with the evidence that there was not a single picture of the much photographed Madeline Newton, even at moments when she would be logically present, such as the ceremonies of marriage and inauguration and important social events, telescoped the undeniable message of friction between them. It was a cliché of course, possessive mother locked in a tug of war with strong-willed equally possessive, albeit famous wife. But the logic of the evidence was undeniable.

Fiona pushed away the edge of suspicion. It was absurd, she thought. If such antagonism were a motive, the world would be strewn with corpses.

"The autopsy will tell us more about the sexual assault," the Eggplant said. Fiona felt her stomach knot.

"Sexual assault?" Shipley asked, puzzled, turning to his wife, then to Fiona.

"You didn't mention that," he muttered angrily, the words barely able to pass his lips. He had been pale when he arrived. Now he was ashen.

"I'm sorry," the Eggplant said looking at Fiona, obviously regretting his revelation. "You didn't tell him?"

Fiona shook her head.

"We weren't absolutely certain," Fiona replied tamping down her indignation.

"It's a good bet, I'm afraid," the Eggplant said cutting a glance at Shipley. He felt not the slightest hesitancy in sharing this information with Shipley. "It's awful, I know. I'm sorry."

"She was seventy-seven years old," Shipley said, his voice hoarse. He turned to Fiona, glaring. "So she didn't suffer did she?"

"I was trying to spare you, Governor. Besides, the sequence is not confirmed."

"Sequence?" Shipley said, his expression shocked, indignant, obviously trying to contain his rage.

"It could have happened after...."

"It's sick," Madeline Newton said. She appeared to be equally shaken by the revelation.

"Very," the Eggplant agreed, glaring at Fiona. There was, after all, no way of hiding the information. Sooner or later they would know. She felt remiss, her indignation misplaced. She had let compassion intercede.

"Must the world know this?" Madeline Newton asked looking at her husband, who glared back at her.

"We're public servants, Mrs. Shipley," the Eggplant said self-righteously, invoking, Fiona supposed, the public's right to know, normally the media's mantra. "Anyway, it's impossible to hide these things."

"May I remind you, Captain," Madeline said. "We.... my husband is a public servant as well."

"No insult intended, Mrs. Shipley," the Eggplant said, feigning humility.

"I didn't mean cover-up, Captain," Madeline said pointedly. "I'm talking about the so-called tabloids, those vicious newspapers and TV shows. It's so.... so lurid. A seventy-seven year old woman. Let her have her last moment of dignity. At one time in this town she was an institution. She had the world's most powerful people in this house." She paused, removed her sunglasses, her powerful violet eyes glance roaming the room, her thespian training kicking in. "She was celebrated."

"I can't control what the media does, Mrs. Shipley," the Eggplant sighed, his own not unsubstantial thespian abilities activated.

"But surely, Captain." Madeline turned to her husband. "You could evade providing the information. I mean really...."

"I certainly will try," the Eggplant said.

"He can, can't he William?" Madeline Newton persisted, ignoring the Eggplant's comment, treating him with the arrogance of her own perceived superiority. "I mean I'm not asking him to break any rules or suppress evidence or anything like that. I'm trying to protect your mother's reputation ... her image if you will. This is, after all, the capital of the United States of America, not Hollywood."

Same rules, Fiona thought. The cult of celebrity. Her being on the scene only made it worse. The marriage of politics and entertainment, a perfect match. Fiona's cynicism reinterpreted Madeline Newton's plaint. She didn't want the mud to splatter over her husband, not at this critical juncture in his career. Tabloid journalism mucked everyone it touched.

William Shipley looked trapped, helpless. Fiona sensed his ordeal. He confronted his wife with a mordant bloodshot stare of rebuke.

"The woman's dead, Madeline."

"I know she's dead, William," Madeline replied, her tone rising. "It's humiliation enough to have to bear it without shouting it from the rooftops. The rape of a seventy-seven year old woman. Can't you just picture the headlines? My God, William. Do something."

"It's out of our control, darling," Shipley said, his voice wispy.

"Don't we have any rights as relatives, William?"

Having spent most of her adult life the butt of gossip, her protests seemed a bit ingenuous. She had been married four times, been linked with numerous men, and photographed surreptitiously in various states of undress. Her medical history was an open book. Her various illnesses and her alleged bouts with alcoholism and drug abuse were well documented. And here she was, reincarnated as Miss Prissy, a potential first lady, protesting, of all things, the media's spin, the very spin that helped provide her persona with mystery, glamour allure and enduring celebrity.

Yet Fiona understood the woman's position, despite the heavy handed and obnoxious way she was presenting it. She was looking at it solely from a politician's point of view, a vantage that Fiona knew well. The revelation could be far worse than an indignity to a dead woman's image. It injected the double-edged sword of ridicule, even humor, which could spill over and soil the public image of William Shipley.

So far, to those like Fiona who eagerly observed and digested such implications, there hadn't been a single misstep. As a Presidential aspirant, Shipley was the current golden boy of American politics.

He was invested with all the obvious equipment, good looks, a golden tongue and quick wit, a well honed track record of political success, a natural dignity and charm and the outward appearance of decency and compassion as well as the more subtle attributes, a strong libido validated by his bedding, taming one might conclude, an American sexual icon. Nor was it a secret that Madeline Newton was, after all, and had been the moment she married him, the principal asset and perceived guardian of William Shipley's political future.

"I assure you Mrs. Shipley," the Eggplant said patiently. "That I will be as discreet with the media as is humanly possible."

"Discretion is not the issue. It's revelation. Isn't it William?"

"It's too late for that Madeline," Shipley shrugged.

"No it's not," Madeline persisted." The world doesn't know, not yet. And if we can control the agenda.... "Her voice drifted off as if she suddenly realized that she was engaged in inappropriate conduct for the circumstances at hand.

"There are reporters out there, Mrs. Shipley," the Eggplant said with some impatience.

"Even as a favor, Captain. As a personal favor," Madeline Newton said, purring now, a switch from bitch to seducer. Apparently she had waved away any self-imposed criticism of impropriety. Fiona was amazed at her chameleon tenacity. This was a woman used to having her own way.

She was, Fiona observed, despite the bizarre events that had occurred, actually attempting to work her very considerable woman's wiles on the Eggplant. No way, Fiona decided. He was pushed around enough at home to be compliant on the job. Besides, his agenda was to become police commissioner and there was no apparent upside for him in keeping his name out of the public eye.

"Leave it alone, Madeline," her husband snapped impatiently. "There's nothing we can do. Not now." There was an ominous portent to the idea of postponement.

"I'll do my best," the Eggplant said, showing remarkable restraint.

"Of course you will, Captain," Madeline said, shooting her husband a glance of futility as if he hadn't measured up to the occasion. She watched as the Eggplant turned from the room and let himself out the front door and into the maw of the media.