Washington Masquerade Read Free

other less-attractive traits. And yet, despite the fury of their occasional battles, she knew that beneath it all, although never articulated, they admired and respected each other, not only for their police skills but for their insight into human behavior from each of their perspectives, as well.
    They were both outsiders. He was married to a woman who was part of a family of the aristocratic and snobbish blacks whose antecedents and achievements predated the Civil War, and to whom “old family” meant status in the world of Gold Coast Negroes who were at the top of the pecking order of that society. To them, the achieving whites that surrounded them were lesser in every human trait and accomplishment.
    His home life, she suspected, was a perpetual ordeal because he had chosen a profession that was considered beneath the aspirations of this group who were mostly doctors, professors, and in other prestigious careers. Only the title of Police Commissioner could vindicate this choice. So far that appointment had eluded him.
    Although he had the qualifications, education, and brainpower far above his peers, he lacked the required diplomatic skills, and he was incapable of suffering fools, both above and below him. Ironically, family connections kept him secure in his role as Chief of Homicide.
    Fiona’s own credentials were more conspicuous. She was the lily-white princess in this den of macho black cops. Daughter of a former senator, financially independent, raised in the precincts of the white-establishment of the capital’s power elites, she was deeply connected with both; the cave dwellers or the permanent cadre of Washington high society, including the political, diplomatic, and media high rollers, and decision makers who came in and out of the capital’s revolving doors. Her career choice was more than simply an aberration. It baffled everyone—that is, everyone but herself.
    To the question of why she had chosen such a high-risk, blue-collar, race-sensitive career, she would respond using the same coy answer offered by the mountain climber, “Because it’s there.” Nobody who knew her well ever asked the question again. Who could possibly believe that she felt becoming a homicide detective was her natural calling?
    â€œTurnover,” Chief Hodges sighed. “We can’t compete with the expanding need for security by the private companies. We’re losing too many good people.”
    â€œNot us, Chief.”
    Fiona knew he had spurned offers at twice or three times his policeman’s salary by these very same companies, and unlike many of their coworkers, the early pension was not the real lure. She, too, had had her share of offers.
    â€œWe both know why we stay, Chief,” she told him gently, which was not the tone of her usual response in the heat of homicide business.
    â€œBecause we’re idiots,” he sighed.
    â€œIt’s because we dig the bullshit,” Fiona said. It had become a rationale in her head. “We love being harangued, insulted, and assaulted by the bad guys. Love being abused by our superiors. Love the long hours, the stupid paperwork, the repressive expectations on addressing race, religion, and gender. Best of all, we love beating up on the lying scumbag killers who think they can get away with murder. There’s where the real high comes from, that and unraveling the puzzles. Because, Chief, say what you will, it’s fucking fun.”
    â€œFun?” He lowered his voice and offered a rare non-sarcastic smile, and she knew the cloud was passing. “Sure,” he said, with an ironic chuckle. “Getting our kicks mucking around in the blood of dead people. Like being addicted to horror movies.”
    â€œThat’s make-believe, Chief. We get into the picture like the old Woody Allen movie where the guy steps out of the frame. Only the reality is reversed.”
    â€œAre we now into the meaning of life,