American Quartetby Warren Adler
Detective Fiona Fitzgerald is an unlikely force for justice in Washington D.C's predominantly male police force. As a Senator's daughter and top investigator in the homicide division of the Metropolitan Police Department, Fiona maneuvers between two vastly different worlds, moving quickly from opulent State galas to gritty crime scenes. Born into the elite social… See more details below
Detective Fiona Fitzgerald is an unlikely force for justice in Washington D.C's predominantly male police force. As a Senator's daughter and top investigator in the homicide division of the Metropolitan Police Department, Fiona maneuvers between two vastly different worlds, moving quickly from opulent State galas to gritty crime scenes. Born into the elite social circles of the nation's capital, and armed with intimate knowledge of the true face of the political establishment, Fiona is determined to expose the chicanery concealed within the highest echelons of the American political aristocracy.
When a string of inexplicable murders rocks the hallowed streets of central D.C., Fiona finds herself charging through shadows of a mysterious conspiracy. Faced with an investigation with no leads and a rising body count, Fiona's reputation as top investigator of the Homicide Division is called into question.
At the brink of professional ruin, an encounter with the eccentric yet charismatic Thaddeus Remington III at his museum-like mansion sends Fiona hurtling headlong through a whirlwind of clues. Where once the desperate detective blundered through traceless footsteps of a triple murderer, the answers to her case now seem to be whispered from bloodstained graves of fallen Presidents. Fiona stands ready, her finger on the trigger, as an assassination plot decades in the making is about to change history forever.
American Quartet is the first book in Warren Adler's Fiona Fitzgerald mystery series.
Why not lead off this week with a shocker, page by page a real shocker - American Quartet, a wildly kaleidoscopic look at the scandals and political life of Washington, D.C.? Only an Irish lady cop realizes that a schizophrenic killer, heir to millions and his mama's boy, is preparing to write his name indelibly if bloodily in American history as the next assassin of a President. To complicate it all, the lady cop'
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THE AIR conditioner sucked in the steamy Washington air, wheezed, faltered, then regurgitated a dank iciness into the interior of the coffee shop. The establishment, as Fiona had observed countless times, had the air of a comfortable old street lady, shabby but serviceable, a touch world-weary but still aiming to please the customer. “How the hell would you know?” Teddy said, in his cop’s rasping croak. “Osmosis.” It was a game they played; one of many, a professional duet, after nearly six months as homicide partners. She watched the widening spear of sunlight illuminate the coffee slicks on the formica table. Through the smeared window, the leaves were still, and the trendy rehabilitated townhouses appeared appropriately eighteenth century in the morning light. Capitol Hill itself had the look of a sleepy village. Sherry’s, with its plastic and chrome booths, its Scotch-taped Naugahyde lounge covers, was a good spot for on-duty hiding and always, at this early morning hour, filled with coffee-gurgling police and loners fleeing from their crumbling rooming houses. “The kids excited?” Fiona asked. “Yeah,” Teddy shrugged. He was always tight-lipped in the morning, which gave his wife Gladys fits, and his children’s possessiveness was absolute and draining. They were going to Ocean City for the Fourth. He looked warily at the portable radio on the table, their umbilical cord to headquarters. “I promised Bruce the whole weekend,” Fiona said. “With his kids at camp and the House out . . .” Crazy, she thought, how their lovers’ time was dictated by outside forces. She was proud of him, amember of Congress, although she detested politics. For his part he admired her cop career as an exercise in female pluck, although she suspected that deep down he considered it an aberration. They had planned to live together experimentally for the summer while his kids were away. She hoped it would be a vacation fantasy, July Fourth to Labor Day, like in a lazy resort holiday. Her bags were packed. “If we make it through August, we might get married,” she said. She and Teddy were intimate the way strangers on a train are intimate. She looked across the table at him, a brooding, hulking man, the genuine Teddy. His bigness gave her security. She wondered if he resented her; her youth, her education, her femaleness. Being partners wasn’t random selection. They were together only because they were Caucasians. The eggplant, the division chief, had “married” them, to keep down the salt-and-pepper tensions in the department. He always took the line of least resistance, hence the vegetable nickname. “Quiet?” Sherry asked, coming from behind the counter to refill their cups. The spotted apron accentuated her girth. “We hope,” Fiona said, looking at the black box, which gave out static. “We both have weekend plans. But you never know in this business.” Teddy grunted indifferently. His private thoughts seemed always to be on home problems, making ends meet, raising a family of four on twenty-two five. The radio crackled suddenly. They leaned forward, the adrenalin charging. “The National Gallery of Art?”
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