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 through 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."

"At this stage, that could be interpreted as theft, Roy," Gail said.

"I told you. They're mine. They belong to me. To no one else. Not even to Madame. They were mine. A gift to myself."

"No one is denying that Roy," Fiona said.

"I don't believe we have the authority to authorize them leaving the premises," Gail said.

"Please," he pleaded. He was begging. It was agonizing to see his pain. "No one need see them. They mean little to anyone but me. Why expose her to.... people couldn't understand. Surely, it can't have anything to do with what happened. Where's the harm?"

"And if we agree..." Fiona began, looking at Gail, who nodded her consent.

"I'll tell you everything," Roy said. "I promise."

Gail locked the car doors and they moved with him across the alley.

Inexplicably he stopped for a moment and studied the little pet cemetery where engraved plaques marked the graves. Fiona noted that one of the markers seemed newer than the others. "Marshall," it said. "A true and loyal friend."

"Might have been different if he had lived," Roy sighed, moving through the back door, and into the kitchen. He slumped in a chair, exhausted. His face was ashen, sunken.

"May I have a glass of water?" he asked.

Gail got up and filled a glass from the tap. He took it with both hands, the finger with the missing tip held stiffly barely touching the glass.

Fiona noted his Adam's apple slithering up and down in his scrawny wrinkled neck as he drank. Then, with his hands still shaking, he put the empty glass on the table and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He sucked in a deep breath, as if to steady himself.

"Will you let me keep them?" he asked, his voice reedy.

Gail looked toward Fiona.

"I can't see how it would hurt," Fiona said, searching for reasons that might justify the decision.

"Me, neither," Gail said.

He nodded and seemed relieved. They waited though a long silence. There was a sense that he was gathering his thoughts for some momentous revelation. They were not disappointed.

"She was my life," he said.

"You were lovers?" Fiona asked gently. With the paintings as obvious evidence of having been composed from life, she had little doubt of the contention.

Roy hesitated and in his expression, Fiona could see the mechanics of his mental processes. For some reason, far out of context of the moment, Fiona was reminded of a chicken about to lay an egg. It was purely a fictional observation, since she had never seen it happen. At any moment, she expected to hear a cackle and the flutter and flap of useless wings.

"Yes..." His eyes moistened and reddened and his nose began to run. "God. I loved her."

"Incredible," Gail whispered.

Why incredible? Fiona asked herself. Deb Shipley had lived with a public persona that eschewed any intimate relationship with men. But privately, she had what she wanted, needed. No, not incredible at all, Fiona militantly insisted to herself. She knew what it meant to have a demanding sexuality, understood the prospect of a barren life without the ministrations of a partner. Hadn't Fiona, like many women, yearned for her very own secret lover?

Gail, she knew, would never admit to such a fantasy. Perhaps it never occurred to her. Early traumas, Fiona knew, could numb sexuality. It certainly appeared to have done so to Gail.

Lust, Fiona had concluded in adolescence, despite her mother's admonitions, was a healthy instinct, which needed disciplined but resourceful management. She had not always been successful in that process, but she had been lucky enough to escape unwanted pregnancy and disease. She felt suddenly deeply bonded with Deb Shipley, envying her secret life.

"I had no idea you could paint like that," Fiona said.

"That's how it began," Roy sighed, nodding as if he had obtained some inner consent. "Madame hired me to paint her dog. Back during the war." He paused and grew reflective. "I was so lucky to have found the great lady of my dreams."

"She was a widow, Roy. Why did it have to remain such a closed secret?"

He folded his shaking hands on the table, showing knuckles and joints misshapen and swollen with arthritis. It took a great leap of the imagination to see him as the handsome young lover of the wealthy widow.

"We chose to live that way," Roy said, averting his eyes. "The world was different then. Her aspirations were to reach great social heights and to enjoy all the influence that such a position rendered. That might not seem important now. It was then ... to her. And later to her plans for Billy. Very important. She preferred to appear ... unencumbered."

Snobbery, Fiona decided, agreeing with his assessment that the world was, indeed, different then. She had seen it growing up, the stratification of Washington society. The importance of "position" and "family," the imperfect alliance of the "meritocracy" with the "aristocracy."

It struck Fiona suddenly as comparable in a bizarre way to Gail's laddered world of social structure, the Gold Coast snobbery of the elitist segment of the black community, the obvious source of her guilt.

"For all that time?" Fiona prodded gently.

Considering her own experience with the lack of longevity in her own relationships the question seemed more germane to her own life than his. She studied his face as he searched his mind for an answer. She could understand his hesitation. The evidence pointed to a long secret life, to massive subterfuge and denial, to the complicated interaction between truth and fiction.

Again, his eyes seemed to provide the answer. She could feel Gail's gaze leveled on her, not Roy, and could sense the tension building inside her. Then, suddenly, the dam broke.

"At the time of her murder, were you still lovers, Roy?" Gail asked.

It was, of course, considering the circumstances, an appropriate question, one she should have asked. Her detective's curiosity had been temporarily blinded by events in her own life. The blatancy of the question seemed to stun him temporarily into a kind of disorientation. He seemed to fall in upon himself.

"Roy, you can't avoid the answer." She turned to Fiona. "It does impact on the case."

"I ... I loved her," Roy whispered.

"We understand that Roy," Gail pressed. "Did she return that love 'till the very end?"

He took deep breaths as if he were hyperventilating.

"Take your time, Roy," Fiona said.

Roy seemed to gather his strength.

"I know what you're getting at," he said finally. "Yes, the answer is yes. We are ... joined together.... still. Through..." He cleared his throat. "...All eternity."

"I was referring to the physical aspect," Gail said.

"That part of it had greatly diminished."

"Ceased, you mean?" Gail pressed.

He nodded.

"Did anyone else know? Gloria? William? Anyone?"

"Discretion was our watchword," Roy said without embarrassment. "To keep this secret was ... to her ... to us ... the most important priority of our lives."

"Are you saying," Gail asked. "That no one, no one in fifty years ever found out that Mrs. Shipley and you were lovers?"

"We were never confronted," Roy said.

"You mean nobody acknowledged that they might have suspected?" Fiona asked. "Not Gloria or William?"

"I told you," Roy said. "Our priority in life was to keep this secret."

"You never occupied her bed?" Fiona asked, her mind awash with the gritty details of what it meant to conduct a clandestine affair.

"Her bed? If you mean the bed in her master bedroom, never," Roy said. "This must seem very strange to you. In fact, it is strange to me. I've never discussed this with anyone." He looked upward. "Forgive me Madame." He smiled. "We had our room, our sanctuary. Our bed."

"The one you burned?" Gail asked.

He nodded.

"And no one but you and ... and Madame.... ever went into that room in fifty years?"

"Madame declared it her sanctuary, her private place. Oh I tidied it when it needed it. I painted her there. There were only two keys."

"And Gloria had no idea?"

"It was never discussed."

"When did you remove the pictures, Roy?" Fiona asked.

"About ten years ago, she had her religious conversion. That's when our physical relationship ceased. She wanted the pictures removed. I obliged." A strange sound rattled in his chest, a kind of sob. "I told her I destroyed them. It was the only lie I ever told her."

"So one might say that ten years ago some of the intensity went out of it? It was, in some way, over." Gail pressed.

"Over? Our love? Not at all. She tried to find solace in the church. She developed a different view of what constituted sin. I respected that. Besides..." He studied the faces of the two women seated opposite him. "Love evolves with the rhythm of aging. The calibration may change, but the energy fights to endure. My love for Madame was the most important and satisfying part of my life." It was obvious he had thought about this for a long time. "I'm not sure either of you can understand what I'm saying. You see me as a broken down old man, which I am. What you might not see is the light that still shines inside of me. I spent my life in joyful dedication to Deb Shipley. I would not change a minute of that life. Am I making myself clear?"

"Not completely," Gail admitted. "I can understand the last ten years which you admit was a time of.... well abstinence. But before. How was it possible to live this secret life?"

"If I may," Fiona interjected. "What we mean is how ... the mechanics of it. How could Gloria not have known?"

"We cherished our Thursdays," Roy sighed. "And if she suspected, she would have put it out of her mind."

Fiona remembered Gloria's defense of Madame's privacy.

"What about William?" Gail asked.

"Yes, Billy," Roy said. "We worked it out. Billy as a child had his own life. Nannies. Boarding schools. Later college. Then, of course, he left home to marry. Madame would never allow our relationship to be known to the boy. That was her greatest fear, that our love would demean the name of his heroic father. That would have been the end for us. Never." His voice rose, his defense of this position adamant. "She lived for his future."

He grew silent suddenly as if he were editing any further comment.

"Children are curious," Fiona said.

"Madame made it clear from the beginning," Roy said. "She drew.... boundaries. Don't you understand? We all had boundaries in this house."

"Boundaries!"

The word, its image and implications resonated in her mind. Boxes within boxes. Closed compartments. Locked vaults. Guarded secrets. It had a touch of the gothic. Yet, her world, the mysteries inherent in her work, dealt with secrets, hidden shames, private agendas, and often bizarre motivations.

Could Roy have been the person who put this horror in motion? She studied him now, a cornered figure, his hidden world exploded. She let various scenarios penetrate her mind, rejecting them all. No, she decided, trusting her instincts. No way.

But Gail continued the quest, apparently still unconvinced.

"Roy. Do you know there is very little value left in Mrs. Shipley's estate?"

He shrugged his indifference.

"I told you. It was of no importance."

"Did you ever discuss it?"

He hesitated for a brief moment, then shook his head.

"Surely, if you were that intimate, she would have told you about the condition of her finances?" Gail pressed.

"I never asked and never cared. I still don't care."

"Have you any money?"

"Very little. I have no need for money."

"Roy, face reality. Mrs. Shipley left you and Gloria the house. They're going to sell it and all the contents, with the exception of what William will take for sentimental reasons."

"I know. That's why I was storing the paintings. I didn't want anyone to see the paintings. They are my treasures."

"Did you plan to return?"

"Where else would I go? I haven't dealt with that."

"You realize Roy that you still have to answer to charges. And then there's this possibility of a new charge. Arson."

"Maybe that will solve the problem for me," Roy chuckled wryly. "The Government will deal with my housing problem. Frankly, I really don't care."

"There are obviously some things you care about Roy, the pictures, for example."

"The pictures are mine," Roy insisted. "No one has any right to these pictures. Not even to see them. They're mine."

"We won't make an issue of that at the moment," Fiona said, inclined to go along with his contention of ownership.

"I appreciate that," Roy said.

Fiona contemplated him for a while. His energy level seemed to be diminishing in front of their eyes. He seemed utterly helpless and forlorn, broken, fragile, sickly.

"I'm sure Gov. Shipley could find a place for you, Roy." Fiona said.

The suggestion had an immediate energizing effect on Roy. She saw his knuckles go white and his lips quivered.

"Under the same roof with that woman ... never. I'd rather die."

Fiona was stunned by the vehement force of his negativity.

"That's a pretty heavy indictment, Roy."

"I can never forgive her for the misery she caused Madame. Taking Billy away from her. Separating them. He was her life. It was she who guided Billy's career from the beginning. It was her devotion, her money, and her effort. Even her religion could not give her the solace she needed. That woman...."

His voice quivered with anger. All restraint disappeared.

"I hate her. We both hated her."

Fiona and Gail exchanged puzzled glances.

"But surely," Fiona said. "She is an asset to his aspirations. She is dedicated to his career. She has raised his profile...."

"With Madame.... he needed no one else. That woman pushed her away. We..." He appeared on the verge of hysteria.

Fiona stood up and got him another glass of water, which his shaking hands could barely get to his lips. He managed a few sips before the water slopped over his chin and he put down the glass.

"Do you think, Roy," Fiona asked with a brief glance at Gail." That the feeling was mutual? I mean did the same attitude exist on Madeline Newton's part toward Madame?"

Roy reflected for a brief moment.

"Absolutely," he said firmly. "Absolutely."

"But you wouldn't accuse her of.... "Fiona began.

"Wouldn't I?" Roy interrupted. "That woman is capable of anything."

It was, Fiona remembered, Gail who had raised the possibility earlier. Still, it seemed far-fetched and illogical, although Roy's support of the idea, notwithstanding his emotional state and his distorted perspective, did increase its credibility.

"Do you really think that's a possibility? Roy?"

A crooked thin smile spread across his lips. But he said nothing further.

Fiona mulled the possibility. Roy slumped deeper in the chair, looking exhausted.

"I'd suggest you rest, Roy," Fiona said.

He nodded weakly. His condition was alarming.

"Roy," Fiona said, "We'll call you in a few hours. Please stay put and rest." She looked toward Gail who nodded. "The bank people won't be back until tomorrow."

"Please keep the pictures out of their hands," he said.

"We'll do our best," Fiona said.

They helped him to his room and directed him toward his bed. He lay on his back and closed his eyes.

"What do you think?" Gail whispered.

Fiona contemplated the question. She studied him, a lonely, broken man, hardly looking the part of someone who had sacrificed his life on the altar of undying love and devotion. She could not deny an odd kinship with the man. There was something heroic in his willingness to put his love above all selfish concerns. Or had he been simply foolish, a victim of a wild debilitating romanticism? It reminded her of her own dilemma with Hal Perry. Had she taken the road to happiness or to lonely oblivion?

In a moment Roy was deep in sleep, his eyelids fluttering, one cheek palpitating, his Adam's apple sliding up and down his neck. There was a blanket at the foot of the bed. Fiona unfolded it and laid it over him.

They left him there, locked in his dreams. Fiona hoped they might be more pleasant than his reality.

"That again," the Eggplant roared, when Fiona broached the subject of Madeline Newton as the possible instigator of Martine's murderous assignment.

"Only a theory Chief," Fiona said. They had recounted the events of the morning including all their juicy revelations about Mrs. Shipley and Roy Parker. They told him about the pictures that Roy was caught taking out of the house. The Eggplant seemed less than excited about the revelation.

"Old money, old secrets. So what?"

"You're jaded, chief," Fiona said. "This is a half a century love affair. Where is your sense of the romantic?"

"Where yours should be?" He chuckled lightly as if he saw some humor in the remark not apparent to Fiona.

"Which is where?" Fiona asked, cutting a glance at Gail.

"For openers those pictures could be evidence," the Eggplant said.

"They are, Chief," Fiona said. "Evidence of one very hot love affair. The woman's poses were blatantly erotic."

"I'd say pornographic," Gail said.

"That would be in the eye of the beholder, Chief. The fact is he admitted his involvement with Mrs. Shipley. The paintings were ... well ... extraneous. Frankly, I didn't see the harm in his squirreling them away. Besides, he could have made a good case for his ownership of them. There is no way he could have been the perpetrator here. No way. Even the long time love affair seems irrelevant to the case. And I really don't think they impact one way or another on the search for the perp, whoever, he.... "She shot a glance at Gail. "...or she may be."

"You'd love that wouldn't you?" the Eggplant said. "Both of you."

"Love what?" Fiona asked innocently.

"Her being the one," the Eggplant said.

"Make one helluva story, Chief." She reviewed the possibility in her mind. "Love it?" She shook her head in the negative.

"I'd say that gives him and our star something in common on the P.R. front." the Eggplant said.

"Only in the scandal category," Fiona said. "He has no stake in the future only the past. The star does."

"Does what?"

"Have a stake in the future." Fiona said. "She'll do anything to protect that stake. Hence our suspicion."

"I don't buy it," the Eggplant mused.

"But it does hang there," Gail interjected, "like an old sheet swinging in the wind."

"You still on that kick too, Prentiss?" the Eggplant asked. "Where is your sisterly concern. You dames can be more brutal to each other than to my gender buddies."

Gail shot a glance at Fiona before answering.

"Last time, I was a race baiter in need of counseling. Now I'm a female trasher," Gail said, smiling, as it to extract any bitterness from the remark.

"I'm still holding you to counseling Prentiss," the Eggplant said, ignoring the gender business, always a minefield.

"I may be self-curing Chief," Gail said. "Now that we're off this nigger in the woodpile kick."

"Very funny," Fiona said.

"Jesus, Prentiss," the Eggplant groaned.

"Proves the point. I can make blatant ethnic jokes. I'm cured."

"Now that she has a possible white perp in her sights," Fiona said. The bantering seemed good-natured. Even the Eggplant, despite himself, offered a chuckle. An eavesdropper on this conversation might have hauled all of them up on charges.

"I think your theory is garbage," the Eggplant said. "Besides, me and the star have become kissing cousins. Called me.... "He looked at his watch. "No more than an hour ago. I'm thinking of installing a direct line."

"What was it this time, Chief?"

"Seems that little fire caper was on her mind. I think she caught it on the radio. The old media Cyclops, never rests, never sleeps, stuffing the bull into its greedy maw. Anyway she wanted more information and I gave her what you gave me."

"What was her reaction?"

"I would say ... what's the word. Bemusement. She was bemused. Couldn't understand this never-ending saga. That's the way she put it. Never ending saga. Even asked my advice."

"Which was?" Fiona asked.

"Pray for mayhem in other places. Keep the media chasing Iraq, oil spills, foreign wars, terrorist bombings, drug raids in Mexico, plagues and pestilence invasions."

"Good spiritual advice, Chief," Fiona said.

"Never fear, she's a master at the game. Done pretty good so far."

"So what you're saying Chief, is that we don't push this path of opportunity."

"Not without better evidence than the ravings of this senile old man and.... "He apparently wanted to say more, perhaps something referring to the power of female envy, which seemed the logical next step in his denial, but he stopped himself.

"They're not ravings," Fiona said. "His comments about Madeline and the mutual hatred between her and the victim suggest a course of investigative pursuit. That's all we're saying. It's not a theory to be cavalierly dismissed ."

He smiled but did not take umbrage.

There was something stirring in back of her mind. It hadn't quite surfaced, but she sensed it was on its way.

"So they hated each other," the Eggplant argued. "So what? Lots of people hate each other and don't hire contract killers.... some contract killer. Little bastard."

"We could always rattle Clayton's cage," Fiona said cautiously.

"Who's Clayton?"

"The bodyguard. You met him Chief at the Shipley place. Used to play for the Skins."

"I thought he looked familiar," the Eggplant said.

"He might also look familiar to Martine," Gail said.

"Isn't once burned enough?"

"He did say he thought it was a black man," Fiona pressed."

The Eggplant stuffed the panatela in his mouth, a sure sign of tense cogitation on his part.

"I can already hear the thundering hoofs heading my way," the Eggplant said.

"It's a stone to be unturned," Fiona said, noting that her chief seemed to be waffling over the idea of Madeline using Martine to kill her mother in law with her boy Clayton's help.

"What would she have to gain, setting that kid off," the Eggplant reasoned. "That's exactly what she would want to prevent. Fuel for the media that associates her husband with negativity or tragedy. Makes no sense."

"Maybe the old Mrs. Shipley had threatened to do something, reveal something. Blow her son's Presidential ship out of the water." Fiona was surprised at the direction her thoughts were taking, the idea still standing at the edge of consciousness.

"Like what?" the Eggplant asked.

"I don't know. Something ... and yet it seems so bizarre."

"How so?" the Eggplant asked.

"According to Roy, Billy Shipley was his mother's life and apparently her life's work was to get him to the top."

"If I can't have him nobody can," the Eggplant said, a tone of ridicule rising in his tone." Seems to me, FitzGerald. You got two trains on a one-track collision course."

"Vivid image, Chief."

"Too vivid," the Eggplant said. "Let's leave it on the table for the time being, capeesh?"

Fiona nodded. The Eggplant stood up, an obvious dismissal tactic.

Fiona was getting ready to leave the squad room when the telephone rang on her desk. It was Angus Macintosh."

"So much for keeping things out of the media," he said. He did not sound upset.

"I heard," Fiona said.

"That's the bad news," Macintosh said. Unlike her previous exposure to him, he sounded downright playful.

"Okay, I'll bite. What's the good news?"

"All over. No auction necessary. That one buyer flew in the transom. We're all off the hook. I just called to thank you for your help."

"Who was it?"

"Believe it or not. Madeline Newton. Mrs. Shipley's daughter in law. All debts paid. Her own money and lots left over."

"How much?"

"Two hundred thousand dollars."

Fiona was confused.

"Why wasn't it done earlier? Might have spared Gloria's life."

"I'm really sorry about that. But you see, they didn't know. The Shipleys had no idea. If Mr. Parker hadn't lit that fire and if it hadn't been reported, they wouldn't have known."

"All's well that ends well, Angus," Fiona said.

"Mrs. Shipley is a most gracious lady," Macintosh enthused. "Said she couldn't bear all those wonderful possessions going to strangers. Mentioned that beautiful portrait of her husband's father, too. Isn't that a wonderful gesture?"

"The bank should send her flowers," Fiona said, remembering that the Governor was entitled to the heirlooms anyway. It was obvious that this was a ploy to shortstep the media at a comparatively cheap price.

"They already have."

After hanging up, Fiona looked through her messages, turning her mind back to the events of last night and this morning, remembering the terse note she had written to Hal. Was she having second thoughts? Yes, she admitted, looking forward to a lonely night alone after what was a trying day. Some days were more draining than others and this had been one of the most enervating.

Gail had already left for home. She wished she hadn't. Perhaps she would call her at home and they'd go out for dinner. She hated the idea of going home to the house from which she had willfully, deliberately, chased her lover. Perhaps all this talk of undying love and sexuality had led her thoughts into a morass of self-pity and perceived deprivation.

Then it occurred to her that she must call Roy. His condition was worrisome and his fate pressed upon her thoughts.

She looked up the number of the Shipley house and dialed. She let the phone ring ten times. No answer. Of course, she thought. He had fallen asleep with his hearing aids intact. He probably awoke, took them off, and went back to sleep. Subliminally, she accepted that explanation, although there was a tiny jab of lingering doubt.

She got into her car and started home. The sense of loss, of Hal especially, was getting to her as she drove, pushing her into a depressive state. She felt bereft, regretful, unsure of her decision. What, she wondered, was so precious about her work, tracking down evil, angry, destructive people? Was their pursuit worth wasting her youth, expending the energy of her prime on such a thankless occupation?

It was Thoreau who said that most people lived lives of quiet desperation. Did she fit that description? What she needed most at this moment, she knew, was the comfort of a man's body, strong arms wrapped around her, the feel of male flesh, the rejuvenating force of his body entering hers. In that act, life had meaning, the joy of pleasure, the wonder of human contact.

Suddenly the lights in front of her swam in the tears of her eyes. She wondered if Dr. Benson was home and reached for the phone. No, she decided, his gentle way and soft rebuke would surely talk away her present state of mind. That was not exactly what she wanted. She needed this quake of private introspection to shake her up and perhaps find the key to her own self-cure.

It was Gail who had announced that she had achieved her own "self-cure." Fiona had taken it to mean that she had come to terms with the perpetual ache of her guilt and the overwhelming sense that she was not without blame for all the suffering of her black brothers and sisters. It was, Fiona knew, a dangerous state of mind.

But anxiety about Roy intruded again. It prodded that errant thought still bubbling in a distant puddle of her mind. She was approaching Thomas circle where the street spokes branched off toward Massachusetts Avenue, which was her direction and Sixteenth Street, which led to the Shipley house.

She called the Shipley number on her cell. Despite her earlier reasoning, the lack of response was worrisome and her sense of anxiety accelerated. At times, she had been plagued by this intuitive sense of impending doom. Mostly it was a highly inaccurate measure of the future. Nevertheless, in her highly vulnerable state, the idea panicked her and she took the Thomas Circle spoke that led to the Shipley house. She was there in minutes. The house was in total darkness.

Remembering that the lock had been broken when the firemen had entered the front door, she parked and found she was able to open the door with little effort. When she entered, she flicked the switch and the big rock crystal chandelier bloomed with light.

She moved along the hallway to the rear of the house, toward the kitchen, putting lights on as she went. She allowed herself to assume that Roy was sleeping and did not call out to him. For her, the ideal situation would be to merely check on his condition, then satisfied that all was well, she would leave.

But when she reached his room, his bed was empty. The blanket with which she had covered him lay rumpled on the floor.

"Roy," she called, listening. No sound returned. She studied the room. Nothing seemed to have changed. The door to the storeroom was still open, with the materials she had seen there before still intact.

"Roy," she called again, raising her voice in counterpoint to the returning echo.

Of course, she told herself, although Gail had taken the ignition key, there was another set. Oddly that possibility had never crossed her mind. To confirm this presumption, she went out the rear door and crossed the alley to the garage. The car was gone. She felt ashamed of their oversight.

Instead of leaving, she went back into the house, still arrested by the nagging idea that still nibbled on the edge of consciousness. She roamed the house, intent on dredging up this idea, certain that it had something to do with the secret scenario that had played out in these rooms. At the same time, she used this emerging germ of an idea to delay her leaving the house. Surely, Roy would be back shortly, his mission accomplished She would wait.

Entering the great room, she clicked on the various lamps that were scattered in various places. One switch put a spotlight on the painting of Mrs. Shipley's young husband, forever frozen in his hero's pose.

She studied the painting, arrested by the eyes, which, as often happened when one concentrated on a painting, seemed to become alive. When she moved, the eyes moved, as if she were trapped in its gaze. The inevitable corny question popped into her mind. Was the picture trying to tell her something?

She moved toward it, reached out and lifted it partially so that she could see behind the canvas. There it was, the neat lettering, Roy Parker, April 1945. The idea that had been assailing her began to take shape in her mind. She remembered the old and yellowing sketchbook that she had seen in Roy's storeroom.

Retrieving it, she came back into the living room and compared the various charcoal sketches with the pose in the painting. The position of the body seemed to have been fixed in the very first sketches, but as she turned the pages, she noted that the face had undergone considerable changes. Indeed, the first sketch of a face had barely any resemblance to the last in the sketchbook, the one that most closely resembled the face in the painting.

As she turned the sketchbook pages, many of them yellowed and fragile with age, a fragment of what seemed like a page ripped from a magazine floated to the floor. It was a compendium of medals and ribbons depicting decorations of various types. The date on the magazine was July 1944.

She thumbed through the sketchbook and continued to study the picture. Something in the soldier's face arrested her, kept drawing her back, but she couldn't quite decide what it might be. Again she studied the sketchbook. Obviously the artist was evolving the final version of the face.

The evolution was troubling. One would expect that a dead soldier's portrait might be done from a photograph. She began to search the room for a photograph of the young soldier.

There were any number of photographs of Deb Shipley and important people at the time. Deb with President Eisenhower, Deb with a young John Kennedy, with Lyndon Johnson, with a young Richard Nixon, Deb with various Senators and Congressman who were certainly celebrities in their time. There was even a picture of Deb Shipley and Fiona's father. Although it surprised her, she realized that it would not have been uncommon. In his day, Senator FitzGerald maintained a very high profile. He was handsome, gregarious and very much on the social scene.

The photographs were mostly in silver frames of elaborate designs, tucked away on every available surface and shelf. The walls seemed to have been reserved for paintings of dogs, obviously lovingly rendered by Roy Parker.

The dog paintings were accessible and she unhooked a number of them to look on the backs of the canvasses. The earliest painting was of a German Shepherd, painted in February 1943.

Of course, the dominant picture in the room by far was the painting of the young soldier. Fiona estimated that it was probably life-size, the portrayed figure at least six feet tall.

Fiona knew it was not uncommon for a public room to contain many pictures of the host or hostess with various political celebrities. Nor did she think it amiss that there were few personal family pictures in the room. It did not strike her as unduly odd that there were no pictures of Deb's dead husband. After all, his spectacular portrait was a ubiquitous presence in the room.

Ascending the stairs to the first level, she walked through the master bedroom where Mrs. Shipley had been murdered. The room was immaculate now, obviously cleaned and lovingly tended and polished by Gloria and Roy. There was even the sense that Roy had administered his care to the room that very day. The way it was cared for indicated that it had been treated as a kind of shrine to the memory of its lifelong occupant.

Unlike the great room, the bedroom was filled only with personal pictures, all depicting various phases of Deb and William Shipley's life. There was Deb as a baby, Deb with what must have been her parents when she was a child. Deb in jodhpurs, holding the harness of a horse. Deb with William as a baby. William at various stages in his life. William as a graduate in cap and gown. William being sworn in to various elective offices. William with a woman who must have been his first wife.

As she had noted before, there were no pictures of Madeline Newton, conspicuous by their absence, considering that she was probably one of the most photographed women in the world. But there was another, even more telling conspicuous absence.

There were no pictures of the young senior William Shipley. No wedding pictures. No pictures of a happy couple on their honeymoon. Not a trace of the young dead soldier.

One could argue, Fiona thought, that such real life photographs of the dead husband might be too painful to exhibit. People grieved in different ways. And, after all, there was a highly romanticized picture of the young man in full view of anyone who had ever walked into the house. Holding with that argument, Fiona searched the room for any photo albums that might have held pictures of the man.

At the bottom of a chest of drawers, Fiona found a number of leather bound albums. She sat down at Mrs. Shipley's desk and trained the desk lamp on the albums, studying them carefully to see if she could find any face that might remotely resemble the man in the picture.

Unsuccessful, she began to roam through the house. One of the front bedrooms was obviously William's room from childhood through teenage. It was large, a typical boy's room with diplomas, photographs of various athletic teams, banners of the schools William had attended, Choate, Harvard, various summer camps.

There were photographs of William with what obviously were teenage sweethearts, photographs with Deb. Again, conspicuously, there were no photographs of anyone resembling the young dead soldier.

Her detective's curiosity informed her that she was missing something, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. In the Post article it was recounted that William Shipley, the elder, had volunteered for overseas duty in 1944, after spending a year in a Pentagon desk job.

According to the article, he had risen to the rank to Captain and had participated in the invasion of Normandy and the Battle of the Bulge where he was highly decorated. It was in that battle that he was declared missing in action, which was not an uncommon designation in that fierce battle. Young William was born in the same month, December, 1944, that his father had been killed.

In her mind, Deb had told the interviewer, she had often fantasized that her husband was the unidentified body in the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, which accounted for the picture displayed prominently in the den of William Shipley Jr.'s house in Middleburg. Jogged by the memory of the picture in its silver frame, Fiona also remembered, what she had not noted at the time, that in the Shipley den there was not a single picture of Deb Shipley with or without her son.

With her curiosity operating at full bore, she inspected every room on the upper floors with the exception of the one in which the fire had been set. Many of the rooms were obviously guest rooms that apparently hadn't been used for years, although they looked as if they were all well cared for through the years. A number of them contained paintings, mostly landscapes, although none bore the mark or style of Roy Parker. No family portraits were displayed.

She went back into the great room and sat for a long time pondering the portrait of the young soldier.

Roy had acknowledged that he had been smitten at first look, using the time-honored cliché "love at first sight." As near as she could calculate, considering that the date of the first dog picture was in February 1943, Roy had arrived on the scene at the beginning of that year. Certainly, there was no reason to believe that Roy's affair with Deb Shipley had started prior to William Shipley's death.

Or did it?

Finding religion, Fiona speculated, allowing her imagination to flow unimpeded, was often spurred on by a desire to rid one's conscience of past sins and giving it over to some forgiving divine force.

On the other side of a lustful nature are a chasm of guilt and an explosion of conscience. Deb, if one could use Roy's nude paintings of her as an illustration, was a woman of strong sexual impulses. The face of her dead husband in photographs looking out at her shame might have been too much for her to bear and she had them not only removed but destroyed, except for the monument in the great room, a necessary shrine to validate her son's legitimacy.

Fiona continued to study the portrait, until its imagery became lost in a meaningless mass of melded colors. Studying it became a pointless exercise in hyperactive curiosity.

A detective's imagination could often get too revved up by a plethora of conflicting possibilities. Catching a killer, getting beyond the circumstantial, was more of an art form than a science.

Finally, Fiona tore her eyes away from the picture, which had, by then, mysteriously faded from her frame of reference. All right, there were secrets in this house, she told herself. But every house, every family, every person held secrets, some darker than others, some minor in consequences. Most grew more obsessive in the imagination, mythologized by time and overzealous introspection.

She looked at her watch. It was after midnight. She had been here six hours. Whatever mysteries were churned up in her mind, whatever unanswered questions, Roy, she was certain, had the answers to quell wild speculations. At their next interview he would answer them for her.

Fiona admitted to a sense of alarm that Roy had not returned. Perhaps he had simply gone to some bar to try and chase away the specters that were plaguing his life at this moment in time. No way, she decided. Besides he seemed too sickly and debilitated to drive a car.

She was good at concocting scenarios, preferring at this juncture to create optimistic ones. At the same time she rebuked herself for taking Roy Carpenter too much to heart. Emotional involvement could be a homicide detective's nightmare, corrupt judgment and prevent the free flow of investigative imagination.

Stop overanalyzing Fiona, she cautioned herself. Her mind felt filled to capacity with speculation. Enough, she decided, clicking off the lamps in the great room, then roaming the house, flicking switches until the house was nearly dark.

As she moved through the house, she realized that she still held the sketchbook. Passing through the kitchen she put it back in Roy's storeroom where she had originally found it. Then she continued on her way through the house shutting off the remaining lights until it was completely dark. While still uneasy about Roy's absence, she rejected a police search for the car. He would have to return. He had no place to go.

The blackness seemed to chase her from the house and she quickly exited through the unlocked front entrance, got into her car, and headed for home.