Murder at the Kennedy Center Page 7

  “I’ll try to make this as quick as possible, Senator,” Riga said. He nodded at Leslie and Paul to assure them he had them in mind, too.

  He went through a list of questions, all asked by Smith during his briefing. Riga was a good interviewer, knowing when to respond to keep an answer going, but most of the time showing no reaction to what was being said, just a few grunts and “ah-hahs,” like a Freudian listening to a five-times-a-week patient on the couch.

  He asked Leslie to account for her whereabouts at the time of the murder. She said she’d gone to bed following the gala, and assumed none of the household staff would refute that. Riga asked whether any of them could confirm it, rather than just not refute it, and she had to admit they couldn’t. “They don’t tuck me in,” she said rather curtly.

  Riga’s next series of questions was directed at Ken Ewald. When Smith had asked him about his actions following the gala, Ewald had summed them up quickly. Now, in response to the same question asked by Joe Riga, Ewald went into great detail about what he’d done in his office that night, right down to the memos he’d dictated, notes he’d made, and telephone calls he’d placed.

  “We’ll want to see a log of those calls, Senator,” Riga said in a tone that was neither threatening nor suspicious.

  “Of course,” Ewald said. “I’ll see that you get it, although some of them are highly sensitive in regard to my campaign. I’m sure you can understand the need for discretion in how they’re used.”

  “Sure,” Riga said. “You say this agent’s name is Jeroldson?”

  “Yes, Bob Jeroldson. He isn’t assigned to me exclusively, but I seem to end up with him a great deal.” Ewald laughed, and Smith sensed the falseness of it, wondered whether Riga had, too. “Jeroldson is a strange type,” Ewald said, “although I suppose all Secret Service agents are a different breed.”

  “How so?” Riga asked. Smith half smiled to himself; never make a statement unless you’re prepared for a follow-up question.

  Ewald slid over the question like the good politician he was, saying only that Jeroldson seemed to be a brooding, private person.

  “Goes with the job, I think,” Riga said, offering his own less-than-spontaneous smile.

  “I suppose so.”

  A half hour later, after Paul Ewald had responded to all the detective’s questions, Riga seemed to have had enough. He said he wanted to come back the next day to interview household staff, and would also want to spend time with those members of Senator Ewald’s campaign staff who had easy access to the house and, by extension, to the Derringer used to kill Ms. Feldman.

  After Marcia Mims had been summoned with Riga’s raincoat, he looked at Paul Ewald, who sat with what could only be described as a challenging expression on his handsome face, and said, “You know, Mr. Ewald, I’m going to have to talk to you more.”

  Paul told him he’d be happy to cooperate in any way.

  Smith had suggested before Riga arrived that Janet’s absence be handled casually, without resorting to an outright lie. “Just say she isn’t here, and you don’t know where she is,” he said. “No sense giving the press or the police something else to chew on.” That’s the way Leslie handled it when Riga asked about Janet, and he seemed to accept it for the moment. At least he hadn’t pressed it.

  But now, as he prepared to leave, Riga said, “Please have your daughter-in-law call me the minute you hear from her.” He handed a card to Leslie Ewald. “I figured this was a tight family, that you’d know where everybody is all the time, especially when somebody you know’s been murdered.”

  Ewald laughed. “This is a typical American family, running in different directions and trying to find time to sneak one meal a week together.”

  “Yeah, I know how it is,” Riga said. “Thanks for your time and cooperation. By the way, Senator, how’s the campaign going?”

  “Fine, until this happened,” Ewald said.

  “I suppose the best thing for you is to get it cleared up as fast as possible.”

  “It certainly is, and I appreciate the fact that you recognize it,” Ewald said.

  After Riga and the others were gone, and Leslie and Paul had left the study, Smith sat alone with the senator.

  “I have to tell you, Ken, Riga’s got a suspicion; maybe a rumor. There’s going to be a lot more focusing on Paul.”

  “I gather that.”

  “And I suggest we find Janet as quickly as possible.”

  “My sentiments exactly, Mac. I’ve never been particularly fond of her. She’s so damn flighty, a very difficult person.”

  Smith didn’t respond to Ewald’s characterization of his daughter-in-law.

  “Mac, if there is a charge brought against Paul, you will represent him?”

  “No, I won’t,” Smith said, not sure whether he meant it.

  “You’ve been a very close and dear friend, Mac, and the last thing I ever want to do with a friend is to put pressure on him. But if this thing gets messy, or messier, there is no one else I feel we can turn to. Please.”

  Smith averted his eyes and looked at the gun collection on the wall. He thought of Rhonda Harrison’s surprise that he would even consider becoming involved, and knew that if he brought the subject up at dinner that night with Annabel, her response would not only be similar, there would be heat and vehemence behind it. Annie liked the fact that he was a professor, was more comfortable with the genteel and quiet pace of the life it afforded them. She had mentioned his health. He also knew there was a certain panache and synergy and symmetry involved—college professor and gallery owner, very intellectual, very noncommercial. He thought of her symmetry.

  “Why me? There are plenty of good defense lawyers in Washington. Or elsewhere. You could have almost anyone you might want.”

  “Because you and I have worked together. You know me, know my family. That’s time-saving—and there isn’t much time. It will also seem natural. If I call in some high-powered defense lawyer who’s handled all sorts of bad characters with money, Paul may get off, but first I get tarred with his attorney’s brush. Also, I can trust you. You’re bound to learn even more about this one American family, and I need to have whatever comes out known by a man in whom my confidence is absolute, a man I could trust in my … Cabinet.”

  “That isn’t a big temptation, if you’re trying to bribe me.”

  “I’m trying to tell you the truth. And there is one other thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I think you want to see me elected. If Paul gets charged and if this thing drags on, even if we win, we lose. In the next few days or weeks, I either win the nomination and thus the presidency or I’m the next dead body. I don’t mean to sound inhumane. I think you want me to be elected—for all the right reasons.”

  “I’ll think about it, Ken. I promise that.”

  “I suppose that’s all I can ask.”

  Smith got up to leave.

  “Mac, can I tell you something in strict confidence?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Ewald went through a little stutter-step as people always do when they’re about to reveal something embarrassing. He shoved his hands in his pockets, cocked his head to one side, and did a toe-in-sand with his foot. “Mac, the fact is, I didn’t stay in the office the entire time after the gala.”

  The comment brought back memories to Smith. He sat down. How many times had defendants held to a story until, suddenly, they felt a need to confide in their attorney? Too many.

  “I left the office for about an hour,” Ewald said.

  “Where did you go?”

  “I went to the Watergate Hotel.”

  “What time?”

  “I don’t know, maybe two in the morning, maybe a little later.”

  “Why?”

  “I had to see someone.”

  “That might be helpful,” Smith said. “It would be nice to have someone in this family who can verify where they were for a portion of the evening.”

 
“That might be true in a normal situation, Mac, but not in this one. You see …”

  “Ken, just tell me what it is you want to say.”

  “I saw someone who would make Leslie very upset.”

  He waited for Ewald. The story’s ending was short. “I’ve been seeing this woman casually for a while, Mac. I’m not very proud of it, but I suppose that really doesn’t matter. If I were a womanizer, somebody who was always on the make, it might be different, but this was one of those things that happens in a man’s life now and then. You understand.”

  Whether Smith understood or not was irrelevant. He said, “Why are you bringing this up to me? Maybe you can ask Riga not to share it with Leslie.”

  “Well, Jeroldson, the agent, went with me. I tried to talk him out of it, told him I was on a private matter and that I didn’t want him with me, but there was no way to shake him. He was doing his job, and if he didn’t stay with me, he’d be a former Secret Service agent.”

  Smith’s smile was small. “Must have been a very powerful attraction to agree to take Jeroldson along.”

  “He didn’t know who I met. He never saw her, but when the detective questions him, he’ll obviously mention that I went to the Watergate.”

  “I assume he will. If he doesn’t, he’s lying in a murder investigation.”

  “The point is, Mac, that I can’t allow Leslie to find out about this. There was a similar incident years ago, and although it was all very brief, I’m sure the memory still lingers with her. Obviously, I never dreamed that … I mean, how would I know there would be a murder of one of my staff members, and that a weapon I owned would be the murder weapon? Ironic, isn’t it?”

  Smith looked at him intently. “Ironic doesn’t do it. Care to tell me who the woman is?”

  Ewald shook his head. “It wouldn’t accomplish anything.”

  “Riga will want to know whom you met with at the Watergate. You can’t tell him it doesn’t matter.”

  “I know, I know, but for now can’t we skip names?” Ewald was angry, chiefly at himself.

  Smith shrugged. He had little choice; he couldn’t force Ewald to reveal who the woman was. He looked into Ewald’s eyes and felt, at once, sympathy and anger. Certainly, adultery was not the greatest sin anyone could commit. He’d come close on more than one occasion during his own marriage, and, he knew, could easily have taken the final step that would have carried him from passing lust to transgression.

  What angered him was the possible ramifications to the campaign of the man he believed would make the best president of the United States, the best of the recent lot. Was he looking at another Gary Hart, someone capable of self-destruction at the most crucial time in his life? There were differences, of course. Smith had never viewed Hart as an electable presidential candidate, nor did he see Ken Ewald as a compulsive, promiscuous womanizer. Still, the situation was a lot graver than he would have liked.

  What had Henry Adams said years ago? “Morality is a private and costly luxury.” Morality, Smith had decided long ago, along with its sister metaphor, religion, had caused the death of too many people to be a dependable criterion for judging others, especially in Washington. The city teemed with ambitious young men and women, many living there only part time, away from home, under tremendous pressure to succeed, and sharing a common love of the excitement of politics and the nation’s capital. Whatever their political viewpoint, they came with their dreams and ideals only to learn quickly that politics was a far more pragmatic business, necessity constantly being the mother of compromise. Beliefs usually blew away in the wind like dead leaves when they got in the way of accomplishing goals, political or personal—or, frequently, mixed. Morality? For many, it was every man for himself, and every woman, too.

  No, he must not judge this man on the basis of a sexual indiscretion. He would remain angry, however. He was entitled to that.

  “Look, Mac, I know this puts you in an awkward position, but try to understand.”

  “I’m doing my best. Is there much of a possibility that this woman is likely to make your affair with her public?”

  Ewald smiled. “Hardly. She’s mature and intelligent.”

  “It may become public no matter how mature and intelligent she is. You realize that. The MPD will end up knowing about it, and that means the press will, too.”

  Ewald nodded. “Yes, I know you’re right. I need a little private time to think, Mac. Maybe you could think about ways to keep this quiet, too.”

  Smith left the house feeling heavier than when he’d arrived. Don’t make judgments, he repeated to himself as he drove to the gate, was allowed to leave, and headed in the direction of the Mayflower Hotel. He didn’t notice the sealed pink envelope addressed to Mac on the passenger seat until he was halfway there.

  He stopped for a traffic light and opened the envelope. Inside was a note on Leslie Ewald’s personal stationery:

  “Dear Mac, thank you for helping in this time of great need. We shall all be eternally grateful to you. Please accept this as only a token, and rest assured that whatever you need is yours. Fondly, Leslie.”

  A check made out to him for fifty thousand dollars accompanied the note.

  9

  Nicholas’s palette of soft colors on walls and tables, and soft light from a crystal chandelier above, flattered Annabel. She was a beautiful woman in any setting, but, as with all gems—velvet providing a better background than concrete—some settings rendered her invaluable.

  She was born with bright red hair, which had burnished over the years into aged copper. She wore it full, creating a glowing frame for her face, which was creamy and unlined. Her eyes were, of course, green, as if ordained, and large, and her nose, ears, and mouth had been created with a stunning sense of proportion.

  They’d chosen house specials: salmon with a bouquet of enoki mushrooms for her, lobster in beurre blanc for him, after sharing a cold foie gras with a garnish of beluga caviar. A Muscadet accompanied the meal, inexpensive and unambitious. Mac Smith had had enough of complexity and ambition for one day.

  Now, with coffee in front of them, they sat back in their heavy armchairs and looked at each other.

  “I am disappointed, you know,” she said.

  “Obviously. You’ve played ‘the show must go on’ all evening, but the actress keeps showing through the character.”

  “Again, Mac, I ask you why?”

  “And, again, Annie, I tell you I’m not sure why.” He smiled and held up his hand against what she was about to say. “Maybe we should make a pro-and-con list, like when you’re deciding whether to buy a house. Let’s see.…”

  “We? You’ve made this decision yourself.”

  “I can be dissuaded. Go along with me. I shouldn’t do it because it will disrupt the quiet lives we’ve settled into. I shouldn’t do it because it’s bound to end up a nasty, public affair that will smear everyone involved. I shouldn’t do it because …” He smiled again, leaned forward, and extended his hand to her. Her smile was smaller, but she placed her hand in his. He held its silken softness and felt its strength. “I shouldn’t do it because the beautiful woman with whom I am very much in love promises to scratch my eyes out if I do.” He made a point of looking at her beautifully lacquered nails.

  “Worse, Mac,” she said. “You do this and I will act like a cornered honey badger.”

  “A direct attack on the genitals?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “That’s a powerful entry in the negative column.”

  “I should hope so.” She withdrew her hand, picked up her coffee, and sat back, observing him over her cup. He looked tired. The weight of the decision he was about to make pulled down on the flesh of his cheeks and the corners of his eyes. Although he’d shaved before going to Leslie Ewald’s house, a shadow had reappeared. “If I could hold a mirror up to you at this moment, Mac Smith,” she said, “you’d see why you shouldn’t get involved in this.”

  He looked at her in turn. There was
conviction behind her objections. Nothing frivolous about them. He wished there were a way to bring about a grand compromise, to do the right thing as well as to indulge his instinctive needs at the moment while keeping her happy. At the same time, this urge to compromise was edged with a certain anger at her: He told himself that, ultimately, he would make his choice based on what was good for him, even if it conflicted with what she wanted.

  Easier said than done. He did love her.

  “Cognac?” he asked. That suggestion wouldn’t prompt an argument.

  “No. Don’t do it, Mac.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Let’s talk.”

  “Not here. Come on, a nightcap at my place. Rufus needs a walk.”

  “Know what I think, Mac?”

  “What?” He motioned for a waiter to bring the check.

  “I think you’re more concerned with what Rufus thinks than what I think.”

  “He does have a certain wisdom,” said Smith, standing and coming around the table to help with her chair. “Most of all, he never argues with me.”

  They sat in Smith’s den. He sipped a brandy, she an Irish Cream. They said little. Rufus, the Dane, obscured most of a shag rug on which he’d sprawled.

  “Okay, I won’t,” Smith said into his snifter. He’d removed his jacket, tie, and shoes, and sat in his reclining chair. Annabel had staked out a corner of the couch where she’d tucked her stockinged feet beneath her.

  “I’m sorry, Mac. I’m acting like an irrational woman.”

  Smith smiled as he said, “And damned attractive in the process.”

  “It’s just that …”

  “I think you’re right. I don’t need the aggravation.”

  “Maybe you do. Maybe we both do.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mac, it’s just that we’re falling into a pretty staid and proscribed life.”

  “ ‘Boring’ is my translation.”

  “Not for me, but I sense a certain restlessness in you, especially lately. Don’t misunderstand. I love being in love with a college professor. It has a certain snobbish ring to it.” She giggled. “And maybe even good for business. But I was thinking as we drove here that maybe getting back into the thick of things is exactly what you need. To make you realize what a nice life a college professor leads, that is.”