Murder at the Kennedy Center Read online

  “You don’t. Good night, Tony.”

  Smith hung up, and was at once amused and annoyed. Buffolino’s bravado and bluff was the stuff of all losers. On the other hand, Tony had attributes, strengths that Smith needed, including candor, know-how, street smarts. Smith had once had a good staff, good people, who’d drifted away into other lives when he closed his practice. The little speech he’d made that day informing them of his decision had been difficult. A few cried, a few swore, one or two shrugged it off and promised to go on to bigger and better things. Each handled it in his or her own way. Of course. Just another instance of life happening while other plans are being made.

  “Mac,” Annabel said, touching him.

  “What?” He drew a sharp breath.

  “Spend the night.”

  Even though he was an experienced lawyer, there was no argument from him.

  11

  Tony Buffolino sat at a folding metal kitchen table and applied polish to black wing-tip shoes. He seldom wore them. They were tight and pinched his toes, but they went with the blue suit he intended to wear to his breakfast meeting that morning with Smith.

  Abercrombie, the smaller and younger of two black-and-white cats (the other was Fitch, of course), walked across the table and pushed his head against Buffolino’s hand. “Not now, baby, Daddy’s got to get out a’ here and earn some cat food.” Abercrombie looked at him as though understanding and approving, arched his back, and sashayed away.

  A squeal of brakes caused Buffolino to turn and look out through a dirt-crusted, smeared window at the street one flight below. It was an industrial area of Baltimore. A ready-mix cement company was across the street, flanked by two automobile body shops, both of which, Buffolino knew, were part straight, part chop shops. The car with the loud brakes had almost hit a homeless drunk named John who slept in wrecks behind the shops. The driver leaned out his window and cursed at John, who answered with a series of jerky arm and finger gestures.

  Buffolino shook his head as he stood and stretched, causing his sleeveless undershirt to pull out of his striped boxer shorts. He pushed dirty dishes aside in the kitchen sink and used a Brillo pad to scrub the black polish from his fingers. Taking a bowl from the pile, he filled it with milk and placed it on the floor next to three other bowls that had been licked clean.

  The bedroom was in the rear of the railroad flat he’d called home for the past two years. It was large enough for an earthquake of a double bed, a dresser rejected by the Salvation Army, and a yellow plastic table that served as a nightstand. A telephone, answering machine, windup alarm clock, and dog-eared copies of Penthouse and Playboy covered the surface. Because there was no closet in the room, he’d suspended a piece of iron pipe with wire attached to hooks screwed into the ceiling. His blue suit was covered with a dry cleaner’s plastic. He slipped on the trousers, which were tight around his waist, and swore softly as he sucked in his stomach and hooked them closed. He rummaged through dresser drawers for the blue silk shirt, unhooked his pants, breathed deeply, tucked in the shirt, and tied a white tie around his neck, the skinny end dangling below the fat end.

  In the tiny bathroom, he carefully peeled away a piece of toilet tissue he’d used to stem the flow of blood from a shaving cut, ran a comb through thick, wavy black hair with gray at the temples, and turned his head back and forth as he scrutinized his mirror image. Some people said he looked like Dave Toma, the former cop turned actor and antidrug crusader, although Buffolino thought there was more Paul Newman in his face than that. Victor Mature, his first wife had decided. Peter Falk, said wife number two. But neither of them spoke that way after the first few years. Mussolini, said one; baboon said the other.

  He strapped on a shoulder holster, poured himself a cup of coffee, and turned on the radio. The weather would be sunny and warm. Yeah, and maybe Buffolino would earn a few dimes to buy his Billy a thing or two.

  He let the phone in the bedroom ring until the machine picked up, and he heard the voice of his second wife, Barbara, through the speaker. He picked up. “Hello, Babs. I was on my way out. I got an important meeting in D.C. at the Jockey Club. That’s at the Ritz. I got to step on it.”

  “Tony, is there any chance of getting some extra money this month? The doctor wants Billy to see a bone specialist, and I don’t have it.”

  “Bone specialist? What for? It’s in his bones now?”

  “No, Tony, no, but the radiation does things, I guess. I’m not sure, but the doctor says I should take him.”

  “Goddamn doctors. Bloodsuckers. What do they think, we live in Bethesda? Jesus. How much?”

  “I don’t know. I just need to know you can help out if it’s a big bill.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll help out. I got this meeting this morning about a case. You remember Mac Smith? Yeah, he called me and needs me. How’s that, huh? It’s a big one. Yeah, sure, you got it, Babs. Is he there?”

  “No. My mother has him for a few days.”

  “How’s your mother?”

  “Fine. She’s a big help.”

  “Yeah, I know. Well, Babs, I got to go. I don’t want to be late, huh? Let me know.”

  “I will. Thanks, Tony.”

  “Yeah. Say hello to Billy. Maybe I can get out to see him this weekend.”

  “Try. He asks about you all the time.”

  “Yeah. This weekend. I’ll be there unless this case sends me out a’ town. I’ll call ahead. So long.”

  His car, a faded red 1978 Cadillac with a cracked white landau roof and white leather interior gone grimy with age, was parked in front of a body shop. It wouldn’t start. “You should junk this, Tony,” the body-shop owner grumbled as he always did when Buffolino persuaded him to give him a jump-start. “I can get you a nice ’85, ’86 cheap. Maybe even the color you want.”

  “Yeah, that’d be nice,” Buffolino said, looking at his watch.

  “You tell me what you want, Tony—year, color, accessories, and I get it for you, a couple days.” The car started.

  “Thanks, man,” Buffolino said. “We’ll talk about it.”

  “Foreign, too—BMW, Mercedes, Jag. Whatever.”

  “Good, great, thanks, Mickey. I owe you.” No thanks, he thought. As much as I need new wheels, no custom-stealing for me.

  It was stop-and-go traffic once he reached the D.C. city limits. His engine stopped and went, too, dying multiple deaths but recovering each time with distinct moans of protest. Shame innocent murder victims can’t do the same, he thought.

  By the time he parked around the corner from the Ritz-Carlton, he was fifteen minutes late. “Damn, man,” he muttered as he ran around the corner and sped past the doorman.

  Smith was waiting at a table. Buffolino paused in the doorway, drew a deep breath, ran his hand over his hair, and sauntered up to the table. Smith stood, extended his hand. “Hello, Tony, good to see you again.”

  “Yeah.” He sat and looked around. “Nice place.”

  “I assumed you’d been here before.”

  “Nah. Always wanted to. My girlfriend comes here.”

  “Girlfriend? Getting married again?”

  “Nah. Three times you’re out, huh?” He smiled. “You look good, Mr. Smith. A couple a’ pounds more maybe, but good. The U treats you good?”

  “Yes.” Smith motioned to a waiter for menus. “I suggest we order,” he said. “I’m sure we both have commitments to get to.”

  “Yeah. Up to my neck.” Tony’s schedule called for him to sit in a small spare office he rented from a real estate broker and wait for the phone to ring, hoping it was not someone selling subscriptions or a recorded voice offering choice bargains in travel, real estate, or jewelry.

  After they’d ordered, Buffolino asked, “What’s this case you called me about?”

  What Smith wanted to accomplish from this initial meeting was a sense that Buffolino was still the person he needed, to become reacquainted with the man he’d defended years ago. He answered the question with, “Tell me abou
t yourself these days, Tony. Fill me in on your business. How are your children?”

  “They’re good. One’s got a medical problem … Billy … I guess you remember.… Yeah, well, sure you do.… anyhow, nothing I can’t handle.” He almost asked about Smith’s son, but caught himself.

  “You have your own agency now?”

  “Yeah. Natural move to make, huh? What’s an ex-cop know except being a cop? Working private’s good. I can pick and choose the slobs I’ll work with. Lot a’ slobs out there, Mac. This whole country’s la-la land. You find that?”

  Smith smiled and sighed. “We do have more than our share of strange ones. Another orange juice?”

  “I guess so. Fresh-squeezed. It’s better than canned.”

  They filled the next few minutes with small talk. When their breakfasts were served, Smith said, “This case, if it develops, will be a tricky one, Tony. It involves the son of … a prominent politician.”

  “Somebody ice him?”

  “No. He’s suspected of ‘icing’ someone.”

  “Yeah? You say if the case develops. You’re not … we’re not a sure thing?”

  Buffolino tried to hide his disappointment, but Smith picked up on it. “I’m here this morning, Tony, assuming we’re going ahead. Naturally, I have a retainer for you.” He pulled an envelope from his jacket. In it was two hundred dollars. “If we go forward, there’ll be whatever we agree on.”

  “The family’s rich?”

  “Yes.”

  “A big shot. Who they say he kill, somebody in the family?”

  “No, it was his lover.”

  “Happens,” Buffolino said.

  “Too often. Tony, can you start now?”

  “Start?”

  “Yes. I’ve typed out the details.” Smith pulled papers from his breast pocket and handed them across the table. “My client is Paul Ewald.”

  “The senator’s son.”

  “He’s a prime suspect in the murder of a young woman with whom he had an affair. Named Andrea Feldman.”

  “The broad you found outside the Kennedy Center.”

  “Yes.”

  Buffolino whistled. “What every candidate for president needs, a son who bumps off a bimbo.”

  “Andrea Feldman was no bimbo, Tony. She was an attorney working on Senator Ewald’s staff. Look, I have to move on. You stay here and read what I’ve given you. What I want you to do first is to go out to a motel in Rosslyn called the Buccaneer.”

  “I know that joint. They change the sheets every hour.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they do. Feldman had a key in her purse to room six at that motel, and my client indicates he’d been there with her, although not on the night she was murdered. I just have a feeling it ought to be checked out. Paul Ewald’s picture’s in the papers. Show it to the owner if you can, see if he remembers ever seeing him there. All the details are on the notes I gave you. Also, Paul Ewald’s wife, Janet, has disappeared. I want you to see what you can do about finding her. And I want you to do some digging into Andrea’s background. I’ve given you what I have, but it’s pretty sketchy.”

  Buffolino sat back and quickly scanned what Smith had written out. When he was finished, he looked up and said, “You want me to check out a murder scene, find the missing wife of the accused, and dig into the background of the deceased, all for two hundred bucks?”

  “I told you that was a retainer, Tony.”

  “And I told you, Mac, that I got some big cases I’m working on back in Baltimore. If I do this for you, I got to drop some of them, and that takes mucho money out of my pocket.”

  Smith scrutinized him across the table, and although he knew Buffolino was putting up a front, he also knew that the assignments he’d given him were going to take a lot of his time. He said, “Okay, Tony, I’ll write you a check for a thousand. Get moving on this and we’ll discuss what the real fee will be. Fair enough?”

  “Yeah, I trust you, although I don’t know why I should.”

  Smith ignored the comment and said, “Some rules, Tony. You discuss this with no one unless I tell you you can. Everything is reported directly back to me. Agreed?”

  “Sure. The usual routine.”

  “Fine. Enjoy your breakfast,” Smith said. “You have my address there.” He pointed to the papers in Buffolino’s hand. “Meet me at my house tonight at eight.”

  “Okay. You’ll have a check for me? My kid needs some more medical help.”

  “Yes, I’ll have a check for you. You look good, Tony. It’s good to see you again, and I appreciate your taking time out of a busy schedule to help me with this.”

  Buffolino looked into Smith’s eyes and remembered the last time they’d been together. When they’d parted company on that previous occasion, he’d felt betrayed. Would he feel the same way again when this was over? It really didn’t matter at the moment. He needed the money. He desperately needed the money.

  “See you tonight at eight,” Smith said.

  “Yeah, I’ll be there. Ciao.”

  12

  Buffolino took his time finishing breakfast. When he was through, he went to a pay telephone, consulted a pocket address book, and dialed the number of police headquarters in Rosslyn, Virginia, across the Key Bridge from D.C. “Detective Glass, please,” he said to the desk sergeant.

  “Not here. Who’s calling?”

  “Buffolino, Tony Buffolino. I’m working private on the Feldman case.” The sergeant hesitated, obviously not sure whether to believe him or not. Then the sergeant said, “Aren’t you the former D.C. cop who …?”

  “One and the same, pal. Look, I got information Glass needs on the case. Where is he?”

  “Out on an investigation.”

  “The Buccaneer Motel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks.”

  He stopped at a newsstand on the way to his car and bought the latest edition of the newspaper. On the front page was a photograph of Paul Ewald that looked as though it might have been taken from his college yearbook. Buffolino retrieved his car and headed for Rosslyn. The radio in the Caddy was as unreliable as the rest of the vehicle. This morning, however, it was working, and he listened to all-news WRC.

  “Here’s an update on the arrest and release of Paul Ewald, son of the Democratic candidate for president, Senator Kenneth Ewald. According to sources who have asked to remain anonymous, Paul Ewald and the deceased, Andrea Feldman, left the party at the Kennedy Center in honor of his father and went to a motel in Rosslyn called the Buccaneer. The same source has told us that a positive identification was made of Paul Ewald from a photograph shown the motel’s owner by police officials. We’ve also learned that Paul Ewald’s wife, Janet, has been missing since the murder, and her whereabouts are still unknown. Finally, Mackensie Smith, formerly one of Washington’s leading criminal attorneys and more recently professor of law at George Washington University, has been retained to represent Paul Ewald in the event he’s charged with the Andrea Feldman murder. Stay tuned for further developments in this and other stories we’re following closely. A Defense Department spokesman said today that …”

  Buffolino, who was on M Street, thought, Yeah, and Mac Smith and me are a defense department. He cut a hard right onto Wisconsin Avenue, drove four blocks, pulled into a parking space, and ran into a store whose sign said it sold movie and theatrical memorabilia. He came out ten minutes later, made a U-turn, went right on M again, and crossed the bridge into Rosslyn.

  It took him a few wrong turns before he came upon the motel, a one-story cement-block building that was located in an area awaiting gentrification or demolition. Most of its yellow paint was a memory, flaked off years ago. It was flanked by a gas station and a rubble-filled empty lot. A large sign heralded its features—waterbeds, adult movies, and special short-stay rates. The doors had once been red. Red draperies hung precariously over each room’s single window.

  Neighborhood residents, mostly black and Hispanic, dawdled in small groups in front of it
. There were a couple of news vehicles parked across the street, and a Rosslyn MPD patrol car blocked the entrance to the parking lot. A uniformed officer leaned against it.

  Buffolino went up to the officer. “Hi, Tony Buffolino, working private on the Feldman murder. I’m looking for Detective Glass.”

  The officer, whose bored expression testified that he’d been on the force more than six months, nodded toward the only open door in the motel—number 6. “He’s in there.”

  Good timing, Buffolino told himself. He said to the officer, “Could you tell him I’m here? He’ll want to see me. Tell him Tony Buffolino is here.”

  The officer slowly walked to the open door and poked his head inside. A few minutes later, Detective Robert Glass emerged, and squinted against a hazy sun. “Hello, Tony,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Bobby, good to see you. They threw this one at you, huh? What’ve you got, a couple years to the pension?”

  Glass, who looked more like a man who belonged in a corporate office than a police precinct, laughed. “Afraid so. What brings you here? He said you were working private on this case.”

  Buffolino had rehearsed the answer to that question on his way to Rosslyn. “I’ve been doing a lot of work the past couple a’ years for Mac Smith, the big-shot attorney in D.C. He’s the one who defended me, and he’s wired tight into the Ewald family. In fact, he’s Paul Ewald’s attorney. He asked me to stop down here and see what’s happening.”

  “You probably know as much from TV as I do, Tony. Riga from D.C. found a key to this place in her purse, and asked me to check it out.” He looked over his shoulder toward the empty door. “That’s the room they had.”

  “You find anything in there?”

  Glass shook his head. “We’ve already dusted the place. There were prints, but not good ones. Prints don’t read on sheets.” He laughed.

  Buffolino laughed, too. He said, “I heard on the radio that the owner of this dump identified Paul Ewald from a photograph. You show him the photograph?”

  “Yes.”

  “No question about it with him? He ID’d him right away?”