Murder at the Kennedy Center Read online

“Yes. Of course, none of this comes from official sources, but as it happens, we have a young attorney here whose uncle was once involved with Greist through—well, none of that matters. What our young associate tells me is that he called his uncle, and his uncle informed him that Greist’s practice is rather restricted to lower-echelon socialist and Communist sympathizers who run afoul of authorities. According to the uncle, the FBI and CIA have dossiers on Greist several yards in length and continue to add to them.”

  Buffolino motioned to Smith across the room that there was a carafe of fresh coffee. Smith nodded—yes, he wanted a cup—and said, “The FBI and CIA run files on anyone who subscribes to The Nation and who drinks pink lemonade. That doesn’t mean Greist is a fellow traveler.” His use of that old-fashioned, McCarthy-era term made him smile.

  “True, but there is more juice here than pink lemonade, Mac.”

  “Being facetious,” Smith said.

  Tubbs’s voice suddenly turned jarringly proper. “I certainly hope so.”

  Smith asked, “Any indication that Greist ever practiced law in San Francisco?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is. He evidently was general counsel for a little more than a year to the Embarcadero Opera Company.” Tubbs laughed. “Pornographic opera, no doubt, being in San Francisco.”

  “Wrong,” Smith said. “It’s a small, ambitious, and pretty damn good opera company. General counsel? Doesn’t make sense. Performing companies like that are lucky to get a young opera-buff attorney to look over their lease. They don’t have general counsels.”

  “Well, that’s what I was told. That’s right, I forgot you were an inveterate opera lover. You must miss New York.”

  “Not at all,” Smith said. “The Washington Opera Company is first-rate. You say he was general counsel to the Embarcadero group. When was he out there?”

  “Three years ago, I believe.”

  “Hmmm,” Smith said, thinking back to a benefit performance for the Embarcadero Company he had attended in that same year at which an impressive array of singers had appeared. He’d had that same thought during Roseanna Gateaux’s performance at the Ewald gala the night Andrea Feldman was murdered: She’d been one of the stars who’d lent her name and talent to the fund-raising event for the struggling San Francisco company.

  “Anything else interesting?” Smith asked.

  “No, Mac, that’s about it. There were some Bar Association complaints against him, but action was never taken other than a few talks. Just your average, run-of-the-mill lowlife barrister.” He gave forth with a hearty laugh.

  Smith winced at the characterization. It was undoubtedly true, but Morgan Tubbs made such characterizations of anyone who hadn’t graduated from an Ivy League school, and who dealt in any aspect of the law other than corporate high finance. “Thanks, Morgan, I appreciate your help.”

  “My pleasure, Mac, but you have to promise to fill me in on all the intrigue the next time you get to New York.”

  Smith managed not to commit to that before hanging up.

  He sipped from the cup of coffee Buffolino had handed him, found a phone number on a scrap of paper in his pocket, and called it. Moments later, he was connected to Annabel’s suite at the Plaza. “How was the flight?” he asked.

  “Fine. The suite is lovely.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He filled her in on what he’d learned about Herbert Greist.

  “Mac.”

  “What?”

  “I just had a chill.”

  “Turn up the heat,” he said.

  “Not that kind of chill, Mac, one that comes from inside. I can’t explain it, but something tells me this is about to become a lot more complicated than you anticipated.”

  Smith laughed. “I think it will all be considerably simpler when you’ve had a chance to hear what Greist is really after. By the way, Annabel, see if you can get a handle on where Mrs. Feldman is.”

  “I have that on my list of questions. Where will you be when I’m done with him?”

  “Hard to say. I might be here at the Watergate.” He told her of steps he’d taken that morning to equip the place. “I want to get over to Ken and Leslie’s house sometime today. I know they’re about to hit the campaign trail again, and there are questions I need to have answered. I also want to stop in and see Paul, and to keep looking for Janet. In the rush of things, I’ve almost forgotten I have a client. Try me at home if you can’t get me at either of those two places. I’ll be anxious to hear how it goes.”

  Smith had no sooner hung up when there was a knock on the door. Buffolino, who was reclining on the couch, jumped up and said, “Hey, must be lunch. I forgot I ordered it.” He opened the door and a young man in a starched white jacket, white shirt, and black bow tie wheeled in a serving cart covered with pristine linen. He removed metal covers from dishes, and took pains to make sure all the elements were in perfect order.

  “Yeah, thanks, looks great,” Buffolino said, handing him some bills.

  Smith came over to see what was on the table. There was a large shrimp cocktail, filet mignon, shoestring potatoes, an arugula-and-endive salad, hot rolls, and a shimmering, undulating crème caramel.

  Buffolino gave Smith a sheepish grin. “Want some?” he asked. “I can’t eat all of this.”

  “No, but thanks anyway, Tony. Go ahead and eat before it gets cold.”

  Buffolino wedged the linen napkin between his shirt collar and neck and started in.

  “What are your plans for the rest of the day?” Smith asked.

  “I got some calls in around town, and out on the Coast. I figure I’ll concentrate on trying to find Ewald’s wife, Janet, unless you got something else for me to do.”

  “Nothing specific. Be here when they deliver the equipment and supplies, if that won’t inconvenience you.”

  Smith’s sarcasm was sharper than the knife Buffolino was using to cut his steak. He shook his head. “Hell, Mac, I’m yours. You can count on me.”

  Smith left for the Ewald house. Tony Buffolino wiped his mouth, got up, and called the house where his second wife and two daughters lived. One of them, Irene, answered. “Hey, babe, it’s Daddy,” Buffolino said.

  “Hello, Daddy.” Her response was pointedly cold, but Tony knew better than to mention it. He was a lousy father, and he’d never denied it. He hadn’t seen Irene or her younger sister, Marie, in over six months. “Hey, look, Irene,” he said, keeping his tone upbeat, “your old man’s made a score, a big one, big names, the biggest. You know them all, you read about them in the paper. They’re paying some good dough, and I’m set up here at a suite in the Watergate Hotel like some rich Arab in with the oil money.” He waited for a response, received none. “I want you and your sister to come up for a little party. Mom, too. It’ll be nice to spend a little time together. They got swimming pools inside and out, the best food you ever ate, the works. It’s a suite, a real big suite with more than one room. The furniture is all leather. What do you say?”

  “I’ll have to ask Mommy.”

  “Her, too, remember. Dinner’s on me, for her, too.”

  His daughter put down the phone, and Buffolino heard soft female voices in the background. When she came back on the line, Irene asked, “When?”

  “I was thinking about tonight, if you guys can make it. I think I’ll be heading for Frisco—San Francisco—in a day or two, maybe be gone a week, who knows? Yeah, how about tonight?”

  His ex-wife took the phone from her daughter. “Tony, what is this crap?”

  “No crap, babe. Come see for yourself. Please, you and the girls.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yup, I’m sure. Seven o’clock, suite 1117. Make it seven-thirty. I got to run some errands.”

  “Tony, if this ends up some …”

  “Trust me, babe, and everybody dress up. Remember how you always wanted to try caviar?”

  “Yes.” She couldn’t help but laugh.

  “You tasted it since we split?”

  �
�No, but everything else has tasted better ever since.”

  He let the comment slide. “Tonight’s the night, babe, all the caviar you want, and buckets a’ champagne. Ciao!”

  As Buffolino finished his lunch at the Watergate, a limousine carrying Senator Jody Backus and Ken Ewald’s campaign manager, Ed Farmer, pulled up in front of Anton’s Loyal Opposition Bar and Restaurant. Since opening a few years earlier, on First Street NE, on Capitol Hill, it had become a favorite hangout for members of Congress. Backus hadn’t been there since deciding to run against Ewald, but he’d been announcing to his staff lately that he missed it, needed “someplace normal where this ol’ boy is comfortable.” His staff knew that his real need was Anton’s blackened redfish. He’d been expressing a yen for it for the past three days.

  “What a pleasure to see you again, Senator,” a tuxedoed host said at the door.

  “Same here, Frank,” Backus said. “Trouble with runnin’ for office is that everybody wants you in places you damn well don’t want to be. You’ve got the black redfish ready?”

  Frank laughed. “Of course. The minute your office called, I made sure we did. Your usual table?”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  They were led through the restaurant, where Backus, to the trailing agent’s chagrin, stopped to shake hands. Farmer watched the senator from Georgia with intense interest. Despite being overweight and crass, and with a tendency to sweat even in the blast of an air conditioner, there was an unmistakable dignity to the man. He almost looked elegant, which, Farmer rationalized, was the result of the power he wielded. Power seemed to iron out wrinkles in suits, and to assign a certain charm to crude behavior.

  They moved past two large glass panels on which a donkey and elephant were etched, and to a banquette in the rear. Etched-glass panels along the back of each bench created a relatively private setting. Backus struggled to maneuver his bulk into the banquette. Across from him, the lithe Farmer slid easily into place.

  Backus was sweating as he said to the host, “Bring me my usual Blanton’s on the rocks and a side a’ soda water. What are you drinkin’, Mr. Farmer?”

  “Perrier, please.”

  Backus’s laugh was a low rumble. “Someday, Mr. Farmer, somebody will give a satisfactory explanation to this simple ol’ farm boy why people pay for water in a fancy bottle when it’s free out a’ any ol’ tap.”

  “Marketing, Senator,” Farmer said.

  “Like sellin’ a politician, huh?”

  “I suppose you could draw the analogy.” Farmer’s small face was particularly tight above his yellow-and-brown polka-dot bow tie. His glasses were oversized on the bridge of an aquiline nose. He glanced quickly across the room to where the Secret Service agents sat in their own banquette. He said to Backus, “I would have preferred to meet in an office.”

  “I know you would prefer that, Mr. Farmer, but I had to get out of offices, settle in a public place where real people congregate. I need that like a drug addict needs his daily fix.” Farmer started to say something, but Backus continued. “Your boss could use a little of that, too, you know. He’s an insular fella, I’ll say that for him. Likes to be alone too much. Sometimes, I see a little Richard Nixon in him.” Backus’s fleshy face sagged. His smile was gone. He leaned as far forward as his girth would allow and said, “I worry about Kenneth Ewald. He’s like a son to me. I think the rigors of this campaign”—a slight smile returned—“and the rigors of an active social life, to say nothin’ of fulfilling his role as a family man and havin’ to stand tall where his son is involved, are takin’ their toll. You agree?”

  “No, sir, I don’t. Senator Ewald is holding up quite nicely.”

  “Damn shame what happened to that Feldman girl the other night.”

  “A tragedy.”

  “Certainly for her. Have you seen Paul?”

  “Since his arrest? No.”

  “Awful thing for a mother and father to have to face, havin’ your only son a murder suspect.”

  “That’s all he is at this point, Senator, a suspect.”

  “Don’t think he did the evil deed, huh?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Backus sat back and slapped beefy hands on the dusty rose tablecloth. “Take a look at the menu, Mr. Farmer. I recommend the blackened redfish, but everything’s pretty good here.”

  A waiter brought their drinks. Backus raised his glass filled with rich, amber bourbon, and said, “To the next four years of a Democratic administration. A-men!”

  Farmer sipped his water and stared at Backus. Personally, Farmer found Backus to be everything he despised in politics. But one thing Ed Farmer never wanted to be accused of was naiveté. Personal responses meant little in Washington and politics. More important was the aura of power that Backus exuded, his crass style be damned. The big southern senator’s body count topped that of everyone else in Congress, and he knew the location, width, and depth of every grave.

  Backus locked eyes with Farmer as he downed his drink and waved for a waiter to bring him another.

  “Sir?” the waiter asked Farmer.

  “A small bottle of Château Giscours Margeaux, ’83, please.”

  “That’s what I like to see,” said Backus. “I don’t much care for wine, but—”

  “Senator, could we get to the point of why we’re here?”

  Backus swallowed his annoyance at being interrupted. “That would be sincerely appreciated, Mr. Farmer. Proceed. This is your meeting.”

  “And your check?”

  “If you insist. I suppose Ken Ewald doesn’t pay you a hell of a lot.”

  “Money didn’t motivate me into politics. Public service did.”

  “Just like me,” Backus said. “What’ll Ken Ewald toss you if he makes it, Mr. Farmer, chief a’ staff? Press secretary? Health, Education and Welfare? I’d heartily endorse the latter. You’d be damn good givin’ out welfare to the shiftless nonproducers of this society.”

  Farmer sniffed the wine, tasted it, nodded to the waiter, and returned his attention to the large man across from him. “Some people are suggesting it might be time to talk about a coalition.”

  “Coalition? With who?”

  “You and him.”

  Backus laughed. “I figured that’d be comin’ up. Senator Ewald must be a mite nervous these days about the way things are goin’.”

  “There’s some truth to that,” Farmer said flatly.

  “No wonder. I heard him say in that speech he gave last week that the Republicans have had a lock on the White House all these years, and that he is the one who has what it takes to pick that lock. Nice phrase your speechwriters came up with, but the fact is, I don’t think your master, Ken Ewald, is in a position to pick anybody’s lock these days, not with havin’ one of his staff members murdered with his own weapon, and havin’ most fingers pointin’ at his own son. Tell me, Ed, what’s your honest evaluation of the possibility that Paul Ewald killed that poor young thing?”

  Farmer hesitated before saying, “I don’t think Paul Ewald killed Andrea Feldman.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re brimmin’ over with conviction, Ed.”

  “No one knows what happened,” Farmer said.

  “And from Ken Ewald’s perspective, just as well nobody does know, least not till after November.” Backus cocked his head and smiled smugly. “Know what, Ed? I don’t think your boss is goin’ to make it at the convention. What do you think?”

  Farmer sipped his wine.

  “Just how nervous is your man?” Backus asked.

  “Probably not as nervous as you hope,” Farmer replied. “He’s ignoring any pressure to offer you the vice-presidency up front.”

  “That’s about the only thing I agree with him about. I don’t intend to be anybody’s vice-president. You hear me? You make sure Senator Ewald hears me.”

  “Yes, I heard you,” Farmer said, touching the end of his bow tie, then examining a class ring on his finger.

  “I suggest we
eat,” Backus said, “unless you’ve got more to say.”

  “No, I have nothing more to say, Senator Backus, except that your toast to a Democratic administration won’t mean much if Ken Ewald doesn’t make it at the convention.”

  “I don’t read it that way. Seems to me that all he has to do is keep on the course he’s takin’, and this country might be proposin’ a toast to this ol’ southern boy on November nine. That wouldn’t upset you too much, would it, Ed?” Backus’s moonlike face was quiescent; the liquor had added a touch of color.

  “I suppose not,” Farmer said, “although having you as president, Senator Backus, wouldn’t represent much of a change from the past eight years, a donkey instead of an elephant, but not much else different.”

  Backus looked above Farmer’s head to the etched donkey and elephant on the glass behind him. He smiled, said, “At least we’d have a president who’s in the mainstream of American thought.”

  “Like President Manning,” Farmer said.

  “Manning’s not a bad fella, just handin’ out favors to the wrong people.”

  “Like Colonel Morales and the Reverend Kane?”

  “Hell, no. Morales is fightin’ for freedom in Panama, and the last I heard, the American people stand up for freedom. As for the Reverend Kane, he tends to people’s souls.”

  “Unless they’re Panamanian. Then he tends to their stockpile of weapons.”

  “You sound like your boss, Ed,” Backus said.

  “I’m supposed to sound like him. I’m his campaign manager.”

  Backus nodded and narrowed his eyes. “I like you, Ed. I like a man who says what he’s supposed to say even though it don’t necessarily represent what he thinks.”

  “I believe in what Ken Ewald stands for,” Farmer said.

  “Unless he’s not sittin’ in a chair where he can put his ideas into action.”

  Farmer’s smile was thin. “Like you, Senator Backus, proclaiming your wholehearted support of Ken if he gets the nomination.”

  “I’m a Democrat. I owe my allegiance to whoever comes out of the convention as the candidate. I just hope it isn’t Ken Ewald. I got grave doubts about where he might lead this country.”