Murder at the Pentagon Read online

  “Listen to me, Margit,” Smith said. “I can’t, Tony can’t—no one can watch out for your well-being when you’re at work or at home. But when you come to my home, I want to make sure you get to your home, in this case Bolling Air Force Base. An old-fashioned rule of etiquette.”

  Margit couldn’t suppress the smile. “A form of knighthood,” she said.

  “And I’m your knight,” Buffolino said, matching her smile.

  “Something like that,” said Smith. A vision of Tony in knight’s armor flashed into Smith’s mind, and was gone as quickly. “Mind if Margit and I have a few minutes alone?” Smith asked the investigator.

  “Nah. Of course not. I’ll hang outside.”

  “Thanks, Tony. Only for a few minutes.”

  When Buffolino was gone, Margit said to Smith, “That drink you offered earlier. Still available?”

  He poured two brandies, and they sat quietly in the study. “I want you to know, Margit, that I respect you for what you’re doing.”

  Her chuckle was gentle. “Respect me—but question my intelligence, Prof?”

  “Wrong. I don’t want to see you hurt. I don’t want to see this splendid military career you’ve forged sputter because of this.”

  “Colonel Bellis, my boss, told me he felt fatherly toward me.”

  “I’m not saying the same thing,” Smith said. “It would mark me as a lot older than I like to admit.” He paused. “But I do care about you. So does Annabel. Chances are, Tony can do his number, and none of your superiors will ever know he has. In the meantime I’ve been doing some digging on my own. There are certain legal avenues that might be explored to force a reopening of the Joycelen murder. Of course, these are civilian roads to travel. Whether they’ll hold up in the military system of jurisprudence is another matter. But I think they’re worth pursuing.”

  “I don’t expect that, Mac. Having your moral support and friendship is enough. I just hope you know how much I appreciate this. You could have told me to get lost with perfect justification.”

  Smith chuckled. “I seriously considered that, Margit. Annabel changed my mind.”

  “Annabel did? I thought she was against your getting involved in anything nonacademic.”

  “Oh, she is. But for some reason, you, and this cause of yours, struck a chord with her. I told her I was going to stay out of it. She told me that if I didn’t help you, I could sleep with Rufus. No contest. Speaking of the beast, let me throw a line on him, and we’ll walk with you and Tony to your car. You can ride him if you’d like.”

  “Not Tony, I hope.”

  “I’ll have Tony follow you back to Bolling. Once you’re inside its gate, keep your eyes and ears open. Assume nothing, Margit. A uniform doesn’t automatically translate into kinder and gentler.”

  “I hate to accept that, but I do. Now. Thanks.” She kissed his cheek, and they went to the front steps, where Tony sat smoking a cigarette. Rufus gave him a sloppy lick on his face, which sent Tony scrambling to his feet. “He kisses like my first wife.”

  Smith told him what he expected him to do.

  “Park far?” Buffolino asked.

  “A couple of blocks, near Kennedy Center.”

  As they approached the street where she’d parked, Smith reined in Rufus and stopped. “Don’t be obvious, but there’s a car over there with a man in it. Parked a few spaces behind you.”

  Margit glanced sideways in the direction Smith had indicated. “Waiting for me,” she said quietly.

  “That’s my bet.”

  “I’m—I have to admit I’m shaken by this.”

  “Understandable. Try to ignore the car. Drive straight home. Don’t indicate you’re aware of him. Tony, get your car and come around to here. When he falls in behind Margit, you get behind him. Okay?”

  “Right.”

  Buffolino headed for his car, which was around the corner. Smith said to Margit, “Not too late to cancel. I can tell Tony to forget the whole thing.”

  “The government is following me,” she said in a low voice.

  “Looks that way.”

  “My own people.”

  “Maybe not exactly. But whoever is doing it draws a paycheck from the same taxpayer pool.”

  She reached in her purse and handed Smith a piece of paper.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “A note I received from Cobol after he died. Please keep it for me. It might help explain why I have to do this, and not let it fade away to become a footnote to my life.”

  Smith jammed the note into his pants pocket.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow, Mac. Maybe we can have another meeting, and Tony can report what he’s found.”

  “Fine.”

  “Mac.”

  “Yes?”

  “Tony wouldn’t just go ahead and hire this Peter person, would he?”

  “No. He’ll do as he’s told.”

  “Good night, Mac.”

  Lieutenant Max Lanning examined his shoeshine as a means of averting Colonel Bellis’s eyes. But he couldn’t escape the voice. They were in Bellis’s office. Lanning had just returned him to the Pentagon after a series of meetings across the river.

  Bellis, who’d done all the talking—more like subdued shouting through clenched teeth—stopped for a breath. Lanning looked up and said, “Sir, I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. All I did was …”

  “All you did was stick your nose into things that aren’t any of your goddamn business. The fact that Falk asked you to do it doesn’t mean squat.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did she tell you why she wanted to know about the duty roster, and this HP nonsense?”

  “No, sir. I mean, yes, sir, she did. She wanted to know about the duty roster to help her write the final report on Captain Cobol. She had a bet with a friend about HP.”

  “A bet?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  Bellis stood, which enhanced his threat fourfold. He seemed to the young lieutenant to be forty stories tall. “Anybody ever tell you, lieutenant, about the dangers of fraternization with higher-ranking officers?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I understand you spend a lot of time with Major Falk.”

  “Not true, sir. We just talk sometimes.”

  “Stop talking.”

  “With …?”

  “With Major Falk.”

  “Sir, wouldn’t that look kind of strange?”

  Bellis came around his desk and sat on its corner. He now hovered only two feet above Lanning’s face. “I will speak with Major Falk about this. I will tell her that she is not to pursue any questions about the Cobol case. It’s closed. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir. Sir?”

  “What?”

  “You won’t tell her that I told you what she asked me to do—will you? I mean, sir, you called me in and asked me about it. I’ve been truthful. But I wouldn’t want her to think that …”

  “Get out of here, Lieutenant. Give Major Falk the same general respect you’d give any officer. But keep it at that. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lanning went to the door. He could feel Bellis’s eyes boring into his back. He slowly turned and said, “Sir, I’m sorry.”

  “So am I,” Bellis said. “Make damn sure you don’t have any more reasons to have to say you’re sorry—or you’ll learn the meaning of terminal sorrow.”

  27

  After seeing Margit drive safely through the main gate at Bolling and watching the other car pass through, too, without incident, Buffolino headed for home. Alicia had been complaining about the number of nights he was out working cases; he figured it was good domestic politics to spend this night with her.

  But as he drove toward the modest home they’d recently purchased in Rockville, he suddenly turned off the highway and headed in the direction of the address he’d been given for the late Dr. Richard Joycelen.

  Joycelen had lived in what turned out to be a nondescr
ipt apartment building on New Hampshire, a few blocks from Dupont Circle. Buffolino parked at a hydrant in front of the building and took a walk around the block. He returned to the front and approached the doorman, who sat in the foyer reading a newspaper. His name tag read WILLIE.

  “ ‘Evening,” Buffolino said pleasantly.

  Willie looked up.

  Buffolino pulled out his wallet and flashed his P.I. license. Willie reached for his glasses. By the time he had put them on, Buffolino had returned the wallet to his pocket. “I’m on a special investigation detail on the Joycelen murder,” he said.

  Willie stood. He was a lot bigger than he’d appeared sitting down. He had a high, raspy voice, and talked rapidly. “That’s over and done with,” he said.

  “That’s what we want the general public to think, Willie. But we’re still investigating. Lots of loose ends.”

  “I thought that army guy who hung himself did it.”

  “Probably so,” Buffolino said, shifting from one foot to the other. “The doctor was a real big shot.” Buffolino looked left and right, then leaned closer to Willie. “Lots of top-secret stuff. I don’t know why I get stuck with all the cleanup, but that’s what my orders are. Take one last look around his apartment, see if anybody missed anything.” Buffolino suddenly looked at Willie as though he’d had an unpleasant thought. “You haven’t rented it yet, have you?”

  Willie shook his head. “It’s empty. Nobody’s even looked at it. Too many empty apartments on the market.”

  “Yeah, I understand. I’ll just go up, look around, then get out. My wife’ll kill me if I get home late again tonight. Let me have the key.”

  “Police, you said?” Willie asked, narrowing his eyes and leaning closer to Buffolino’s face as though to verify something in it. “Let me see that badge again,” he said.

  “It isn’t a badge,” Buffolino said. “Like I said, I’m private.” He showed Willie the license. In the same movement his thumb and forefinger pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. Inflation. Oh, for the good old days of ten-dollar bribes to doormen.

  “As long as you’re official,” Willie said. “Looks like you are. “He took a key from a rack and handed it to Buffolino.

  “I won’t be long,” Buffolino said.

  Joycelen’s apartment was on the top floor of the ten-story building, one of four penthouses. Buffolino let himself in and closed the door behind him, then flipped on the overhead light. The apartment was bare. Everything had been moved out. He opened sliding glass doors and stepped onto a balcony that overlooked the city. A gentle rain fell. There was fog on the horizon. Buffolino liked this kind of weather; Alicia was happy only when the sun was shining insanely. This kind of night better reflected Tony’s inner self—not particularly impressed with the state of the world as it existed, nor with the reality that came with getting older: Yes, Virginia, there is a finish line.

  He went back inside, slid the doors closed, and walked from room to room, trying to picture what it had looked like when there was furniture, pictures on the walls, rugs on the floors, and somebody living there. From what he’d read, Joycelen was a strange-o. But weren’t all scientists? They’d said he was gay. But he’d been married a couple of times, and had a girlfriend, this woman Wren. What kind of guy was he? Kinky? Into porn videos? Ritualistic? Kind to furry little animals, or wishing he were back in school pulling legs off frogs? You never know about people, he thought. That was what made police work so interesting. You just never knew. The minute you thought you did, you were in big trouble.

  He wished there were at least one chair left to sit in. He felt like hanging out a while. Sometimes Buffolino thought he had psychic abilities. He could sit in an empty room and close his eyes, and the room would come to life for him, including the people in it. But there wasn’t a chair, and he thought of a pouting Alicia. “Pack it in,” he told himself.

  He opened the door. Staring at him from across the hall was half a face, the other half obscured by a partially closed door.

  “ ‘Evening,” Buffolino said, not taking his eyes off the other eyes.

  “Who are you?” The voice belonged to an older female.

  “A visitor,” Buffolino said. “Who are you?”

  “Did Willie let you up?”

  “Yes, ma’am, he did. Police.”

  The woman opened the door a little farther, and Tony now saw a mosaic of sags and bags. Hair that could use a good shampooing hung loosely down the sides of her face. She wore a pink-flowered housecoat and powder-blue terry-cloth slippers.

  “Sorry about your neighbor, Dr. Joycelen,” Buffolino said.

  The woman said nothing.

  “Must have been a shock what happened to him, huh?”

  “Nothing about him shocked anybody,” she replied.

  Buffolino hesitated, then decided to encourage the conversation, He stepped toward her, which caused the door to close slightly. “Name’s Buffolino. Anthony Buffolino.” He extended his hand. Her eyes looked down at it, but she didn’t reciprocate.

  “He must have had a lot of visitors, huh?” Buffolino said. “I mean, being a famous scientist and all.”

  “Not so many,” the woman said. “Who’d want to be with him?”

  “How come you say that?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I know he’s dead.”

  “He was a miserable, vile, rotten, evil person.”

  “I heard he wasn’t a great guy,” Buffolino said. “You can call me Tony. What’s your name?”

  A painful moment of indecision. “Marge.”

  “Well, Margie, a pleasure to meet you.”

  “You’re the police?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Let me see your identification.”

  Buffolino smiled, and showed her his P.I. license.

  “A private investigator.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Like in books? I read a lot of books about crimes and murders.”

  “I never been in a book,” Buffolino said. “But maybe we’ll both be. Hey, Margie, let me ask you something. You say Dr. Joycelen didn’t have many visitors. Anybody special come here all the time, like a man or a woman?”

  “A few. There was a woman, a blonde. Good-looking but cheap-looking. She used to come a lot. And there was the man.”

  “The man?”

  “Came as regular as clockwork, every Tuesday night at midnight.”

  “That’s interesting,” Buffolino said. “At midnight? Every Tuesday?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “He stay the night?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” she said. “I don’t spy on my neighbors.”

  “That’s a good trait.”

  “He didn’t stay overnight.”

  “How long would he hang around?”

  “An hour. A half hour.”

  “You get his name?” Buffolino asked.

  “I told you I don’t snoop on my neighbors.”

  Buffolino smiled warmly. “Just in these few minutes with you, Margie, I know you’re not the kind of lady who would, and I admire that. I just figured he might have introduced himself to you like I did tonight.”

  “I don’t usually stand out in the hallway at midnight,” she said haughtily.

  “What’d he look like?” Buffolino asked.

  “Pretty young, but from what I read about Joycelen, I suppose he would like young men. Real young.”

  Buffolino asked her to give him a description of Joycelen’s regular midnight visitor. She started to, but he interrupted. “Tell you what, Margie. I got a good friend who does composite sketches for the MPD. I could get him over here sort of on a free-lance basis. He moonlights. He’s a fine artist. Paints pretty pictures, but pays his rent doing police sketches. You know artists. Always broke. Anyway, if you described this guy to him, he could put it on paper.”

  She hesitated, but Buffolino knew that the contemplation of providing a description to a police artist was
too compelling to dismiss. “I suppose I could,” she said.

  “Great. If I can get him over here tomorrow morning, that be okay with you?”

  “What time?”

  “Whatever time you say.”

  “I sleep late. I don’t sleep so good. I’m up most of the night, so I sleep late.”

  “Noon okay?”

  “I could see him at noon. Will you be with him?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t want a stranger knocking on your door, Margie.”

  When Buffolino got home, and after explaining to Alicia that he’d intended to be there earlier but had a last-minute job, he called his artist friend, Maurice Woodson.

  “How much?” Woodson asked.

  “She’s a nice lady, Maury. Maybe she’ll make us sandwiches.”

  “Sandwiches I can always get. How much?”

  “A hundred.”

  “A hundred and a half.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  28

  Charene Maize did what she did every weekday morning after getting up at six. In bathrobe and slippers she went to their large kitchen that overlooked a small Japanese garden, made coffee, squeezed oranges, and split two English muffins in preparation for toasting. She turned on a tiny television set, not because she was interested in the financial program that aired each morning at that hour but because the voices kept her company.

  Such routine, she thought. She glanced at the clock: six-fifteen. Fifteen minutes before her husband, Joe, would get up at the buzz of a second alarm setting. She would hear him walk heavily from bed to bathroom, her signal to put the muffins in the toaster oven.

  The routine seldom varied, even when he’d come home late and drunk as he had last night, too tired to brush away the heavy odor of alcohol from his mouth, stumbling as he tried to get out of his pants, cursing, and then attempting to slip into bed so as not to awaken her. Which, of course, he always did.

  She heard the alarm’s second buzz, automatically reached for the muffins, and listened for his footsteps. None. She put the muffins in the toaster oven, listened again, then went outside to retrieve the newspaper from the driveway.

  Back inside, there was still no sign that he’d got up, and she was gripped with a spasm of fear. Her husband had been told by their family doctor two years ago that he perfectly fit the medical profile of a potential coronary victim. He had to lose a lot of weight, the doctor had said, and cut down on his drinking and smoking. Work less and learn to relax. Joe Maize hadn’t done any of those things, and Charene had tired of nagging him.