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    RED HERRING: A FIONA FITZGERALD MYSTERY
    RED HERRING: A FIONA FITZGERALD MYSTERY
    RED HERRING: A FIONA FITZGERALD MYSTERY
    Ebook219 pages3 hours

    RED HERRING: A FIONA FITZGERALD MYSTERY

    By Warren Adler

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStonehouse Press
    Release dateJan 24, 2017
    ISBN9780795348075
    RED HERRING: A FIONA FITZGERALD MYSTERY
    Author

    Warren Adler

    Acclaimed author, playwright, poet, and essayist Warren Adler is best known for The War of the Roses, his masterpiece fictionalization of a macabre divorce adapted into the BAFTA- and Golden Globe–nominated hit film starring Danny DeVito, Michael Douglas, and Kathleen Turner. Adler has also optioned and sold film rights for a number of his works, including Random Hearts (starring Harrison Ford and Kristin Scott Thomas) and The Sunset Gang (produced by Linda Lavin for PBS’s American Playhouse series starring Jerry Stiller, Uta Hagen, Harold Gould, and Doris Roberts), which garnered Doris Roberts an Emmy nomination for Best Supporting Actress in a Miniseries. His recent stage/film/TV developments include the Broadway adaptation of The War of the Roses, to be produced by Jay and Cindy Gutterman, The War of the Roses: The Children (Grey Eagle Films and Permut Presentations), a feature film adaptation of the sequel to Adler’s iconic divorce story, and Capitol Crimes (Grey Eagle Films and Sennet Entertainment), a television series based on his Fiona Fitzgerald mystery series. For an entire list of developments, news and updates visit www.Greyeaglefilms.com. Adler’s works have been translated into more than 25 languages, including his staged version of The War of the Roses, which has opened to spectacular reviews worldwide. Adler has taught creative writing seminars at New York University, and has lectured on creative writing, film and television adaptation, and electronic publishing.

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      Book preview

      RED HERRING - Warren Adler

      Praise

      Praise for Warren Adler’s Fiona Fitzgerald Mystery Series

      High-class suspense.

      —The New York Times on American Quartet

      Adler’s a dandy plot-weaver, a real tale-teller.

      —Los Angeles Times on American Sextet

      Adler’s depiction of Washington—its geography, social whirl, political intrigue—rings true.

      —Booklist on Senator Love

      A wildly kaleidoscopic look at the scandals and political life of Washington D.C.

      —Los Angeles Times on Death of a Washington Madame

      Both the public and the private story in Adler’s second book about intrepid sergeant Fitzgerald make good reading, capturing the political scene and the passionate duplicity of those who would wield power.

      —Publishers Weekly on Immaculate Deception

      Praise for Warren Adler’s Fiction

      Warren Adler writes with skill and a sense of scene.

      —The New York Times Book Review on The War of the Roses

      Engrossing, gripping, absorbing… written by a superb storyteller. Adler’s pen uses brisk, descriptive strokes that are enviable and masterful.

      —West Coast Review of Books on Trans-Siberian Express

      A fast-paced suspense story… only a seasoned newspaperman could have written with such inside skills.

      —The Washington Star on The Henderson Equation

      High-tension political intrigue with excellent dramatization of the worlds of good and evil.

      —Calgary Herald on The Casanova Embrace

      A man who willingly rips the veil from political intrigue.

      —Bethesda Tribune on Undertow

      Warren Adler’s political thrillers are…

      Ingenious.

      —Publishers Weekly

      Diverting, well-written and sexy.

      —Houston Chronicle

      Exciting.

      —London Daily Telegraph

      Title Page

      Red Herring

      A Fiona Fitzgerald Mystery

      by Warren Adler

      Copyright Page

      Copyright © 2016 by Warren Adler

      ISBN (EPUB): 9780795346279

      ISBN (Mobipocket): 9780795346286

      ISBN (Paperback): 9780795348921

      1st Edition

      All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form without permission. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination based on historical events or are used fictitiously.

      Inquiries: Customerservice@warrenadler.com

      STONEHOUSE PRODUCTIONS

      Published by Stonehouse Productions

      Cover design by David Ter-Avanesyan/Ter33Design

      Dedication

      To my three sons

      Contents

      Praise

      Title Page

      Copyright Page

      Dedication

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      More Books by Warren Adler

      Also by Warren Adler

      About the Author

      Chapter 1

      From Fiona’s vantage on the aft deck of the yacht anchored in the Potomac, the July 4 fireworks seemed surreal as the rockets burst in a rainbow of colors, lighting up the Washington Monument, the familiar and stirring emblem of American celebration. The yacht belonged to the husband of Mona, Fiona’s childhood friend from the Sidwell Friends School who had parlayed her sultry beauty and cunning intelligence to snag the multibillionaire Mark Chancellor.

      It was not the first time she had been invited to be on Chancellor’s July 4 show-and-tell, but it was the first time police business hadn’t interfered, although she was always in backup mode on holidays. Still, she and Mona had maintained contact over the years and managed to meet sporadically when Mona accompanied her husband to Washington.

      Earlier, Mona had taken her on a tour of the 120-foot over-the-top luxury yacht manned by a crew of ten. The vessel was appropriately named My Mona. A small helicopter was mounted on top of the pilot cabin, which was impressive enough, but when she got to the bathroom of the master bedroom, Fiona could not contain her awe.

      A solid gold bathtub! Fiona cried with genuine astonishment. Look how it shines!

      Mark rubs it shiny. I kid him about it. Says he feels like Midas when he soaks.

      And you? Fiona asked.

      I’m Mrs. Midas. Mona giggled. And worth every billion.

      With her jet-black hair and emerald-blue eyes set against the background of smooth tawny Indian skin, she was genuinely stunning, a spectacular beauty, especially now in her gauzy blue silk sari. As a child, she had been skinny, awkward, and shy. Nature had outdone herself in maturing Mona.

      Above all, Mona had once confessed, he loves the idea that he was the first.

      And only? Fiona had asked, wanting to bite her tongue for letting such a question pop out. Thankfully, Mona laughed it off.

      I am like the three monkeys, she said.

      Hear no evil, see no evil, do no evil, Fiona replied, relieved that her friend had not taken offense. She felt certain that Mona was an absolutely faithful wife. And equally certain that her handsome billionaire husband, who must be spending huge amounts of time visiting his vast economic empire and away from his loyal spouse, was more than likely being serviced by a string of lady friends. But then, Fiona had to acknowledge, she had a super-active fantasy life and a dirty mind.

      There are two saving graces, Mona said, winking. Mark’s closest ‘man Friday’ is exactly that.

      A man?

      Believe it or not, her name is Jane Friday, but no one calls her anything but Friday.

      A lesbian?

      Can’t be sure, but she makes it clear that she doesn’t particularly care for men. Mark believes she is. For me she is neuter enough to put me in the comfort zone. She’s quite brilliant and efficient. I’m rather thankful for her orientation. Wealthy men are always dumping their first wives for their secretaries. Not that Friday is a secretary; that’s an anachronism. She’s his voice, eyes, and ears. Goes with him everywhere, except of course family time, but she is always as close as his cell. Like a shadow. Actually I happen to like her.

      You do?

      When he’s away, he is under her care. Used to be a nurse. Makes sure Mark eats his Wheaties, so to speak. He needs that kind of supervision. He is a work addict.

      But you said two saving graces, Fiona reminded her.

      "Yes, I did. Mark is a stickler for discouraging romantic shenanigans between people on the payroll, especially his top execs. He believes that it interferes with judgment and efficiency and is a magnet for lawsuits. He makes it a point. Oh, I’m sure there are violations, human nature being what it is. But everyone in the company understands it is verboten.

      And that includes Mark. One has to set an example. Mona giggled. Besides, I send him back empty.

      Smart tactic.

      Actually I need the recovery time myself.

      Looks like all your bets are covered, Mona.

      I hope so. I love my husband and our children. And you have to admit, he’s a pretty good provider. She winked and giggled, reminding Fiona how it had been when they were teenagers together.

      Mona’s father had been India’s popular ambassador when Fiona’s father was a senator, and both girls had bonded as children until Mona went off to Oxford and a life in London, her father’s latest diplomatic post.

      The girls were avid letter writers and kept in touch throughout the years, sharing the usual intimate secrets of devoted girlfriends. With technological change, their communication had morphed into e-mails. Busy with her children, Mona nevertheless did manage to accompany her husband sporadically on his frequent trips to Washington, where she never failed to contact Fiona. Time considerations and the pressure of Fiona’s job greatly inhibited their getting together.

      Still in thrall to your occupation? Mona asked. Fiona’s joining the DC police had always been a mystery to her childhood friend.

      Not that again, Fiona chided.

      It always seemed so—

      Out of character, Fiona interrupted.

      And class.

      Ever the snob, Mona. Fiona laughed. But then, it takes all kinds.

      I always thought you were my kind, Mona said good-naturedly, with a wink.

      In my business we always ask, who benefits? My answer will always be the same. I do. I am a student of motivation.

      By now you must have a graduate degree in the subject.

      Right you are. Besides, I enjoy thrashing around in the belly of the beast.

      Gross, Mona murmured, embracing her friend.

      I like solving puzzles as well. Essentially, working homicides is like solving puzzles.

      I remember now. You did like puzzles and were pretty good at figuring them out.

      And you? Ambition runs in a straight line from the get-go. You always liked the most expensive things.

      Well then, Fi, Mona said without irony, we both hit our personal jackpots.

      With their two children off to summer camp in England, the Chancellors had taken their oceangoing yacht to Washington for the annual fireworks on the Potomac and invited a host of high-powered friends and contacts from government, business, and the diplomatic set, all of whom were mingling on the polished spic-and-span aft deck, watching the display while drinking champagne and munching on a spectacular array of finger foods served by the attractive coed crew in knife-creased white uniforms.

      Fiona’s experienced police detective’s eye caught a sprinkling of security types of both genders armed with mini mikes and dressed to fit in surreptitiously while ogling the crowd. Chancellor’s security staff, Fiona intuited. He was, she understood, an important contractor involved in sensitive government activities and therefore considered both a target and an asset.

      There were compelling reasons for Mona’s husband’s Washington visitations. His companies were in the health, pharma, and defense fields, recipients of a bonanza of contracts. The government was pouring billions into these fields, and Fiona had no doubt that Chancellor was a significant player with an army of lobbyists and legislators under his command, most of whom were on his payroll one way or another.

      The tour of the yacht concluded, Mona led Fiona back to the aft deck to view the fireworks. A number of the guests were known to Fiona, who had grown up with the protocols of social mixing and was not at all intimidated by the influential crowd, many of whom she knew socially and some by sight. It was, after all, her turf from birth.

      Carrying your piece? Tom Thornton whispered. As pudgy as he had been at Sidwell, he was currently head of the Federal Trade Commission and had been an occasional date before he married.

      Always, Tommy. Fiona winked, patting the flat pocketbook that hung ubiquitously from her shoulder. Regulations. This spur of the muddy Potomac is still in DC bounds.

      He had been chatting with a fellow who seemed overdressed in a blazer, polka-dot bow tie, and white pants, although he did surrender to some semblance of casual attire by wearing blinding-white tennis sneakers.

      Meet Jerry Flum, Thornton said, introducing the man, as was often done in Washington, with a brief bio. General counsel to the House Armed Services Committee.

      Jerry Flum, rhymes with gum, he said, showing a bright broad smile with a space between his two front upper teeth.

      Beware, Jerry, Thornton said with a giggle. She is a lady cop. Don’t murder anyone, kiddo. She’ll find you out.

      Be happy to commit murder, if she gets to interrogate me, Flum said, laughing and pulling out a card. Without looking at it, Fiona took it and slipped it in a pocket.

      Nice meeting you, Jerry.

      Flum rhymes with gum, he reminded.

      She sized him up as typical of the breed, an inside manipulator, with a key position behind the scenes of an enormously powerful committee. Chancellor obviously knew how to pick his guests. Often the real Washington political game was played out in the shadows, yet another lesson that had been taught by her father the senator.

      Fiona eased away in the manner of the socially aware savvy party participant, leaving Tommy Thornton to provide Flum with additional details of her biography.

      The guests oohed and aahed at each burst of color in the sky. It was a clear, comfortable, gorgeous night, a welcome break from the sweaty humidity that plagued Washington in July, perfect for a fireworks display.

      You and Mona catching up? Mark Chancellor asked. He was tall, tanned, and craggy, athletically thin with a graying crew cut and the air of a man who obviously enjoyed his sphere of influence and personal sense of power and command. She noted a tall woman with jet-black hair cut mannish-style wearing black slacks and a red blouse on which lay a string of white pearls. The woman stood at arm’s length and somewhat behind Mark clutching a cell phone. The man Friday, Fiona thought. She felt the woman’s appraising glance and brief nod.

      Chancellor was, Fiona observed, perfect casting for the part of the wealthy power broker with a benign facade of innocent charm that masked the intense moving parts of gargantuan greed. She was well aware that her speculations about motives didn’t always hit the target, but in her profession she had certainly honed those skills, and she felt on target in her assessment of her friend’s husband. In their infrequent conversations, he had once tossed off a remark that continued to reverberate in her mind. Money is the planet’s most powerful weapon. She had always been struck by his metaphor of arms.

      Suspending any moral judgments, Fiona had declared Mona’s marriage a good match on a personal level. Mark needed his showpiece and Mona needed his wealth.

      Not her cup of tea, she decided, but great for Mona, who had yearned for a life of luxury and beautiful possessions and, although her family was quite comfortable, was unabashedly ambitious for more than adequate riches. She wanted nothing less than extreme wealth.

      When asked by Fiona to explain such a passion, she would offer the much overused cliché, I am addicted to beautiful things, and the most beautiful are the most expensive.

      Soaking in a solid gold bathtub was the perfect metaphor for the achievement of Mona’s childhood dreams. Fiona had always found her vocal yearnings for a mate with a Midas touch an honest evaluation of her personal passion for acquisition. Anything less than a multibillionaire husband for her would have meant failure. While Fiona thought her friend’s desire for wealth for its own sake unsavory and baffling, she did not let it spoil her deep affection for Mona.

      Not bad. Not bad at all, Allen Frey, a senior congressman from New York, opined as he reached for the caviar and smeared it thickly on a little round pancake. This is what I call super-class, Frey said, wolfing down the morsel and taking a deep gulp of his champagne. He held out his glass to be refilled by one of the servers. I could get used to this life. His bald pate showed signs of the alcohol flush that rose from his cheeks.

      Fiona nodded, surveying the group. She spied a number of senators, congressmen, bureaucrats, lobbyists, ambassadors, and cave dwellers, meaning old-guard socialites, all snared by Mark Chancellor’s money magnet. Racial strains illustrating Mark’s vast global reach were evident everywhere.

      As if reading her thoughts, a familiar male voice behind her whispered, Money, power, and influence. Now that’s entitlement on a planetary scale. Fiona turned abruptly to confront Bruce Rosen, ex-congressman, now lawyer lobbyist and her former live-in lover.

      Bruce, she said with an old-friend cheek kiss and a smile. Of course you would be on this turf. Their breakup, once toxic, was now congenial. She saw him periodically on the Washington social circuit.

      Real entitlement, Fiona said.

      Planetary, Fi. Sumbitch thinks he runs the world, all of whom are present and accounted for.

      So it appears, Fiona said.

      Any murderers in sight, Fi? Bruce said.

      Only mass,

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