Murder at the Kennedy Center Read online

  “Yes.”

  “The night she was murdered?”

  Ewald shook his head. “No, we didn’t have sex that night.”

  “Didn’t Andrea have an apartment here in D.C.?”

  “Yes, she did, but we never went there. I thought it was strange, but she said we should be more discreet than that, go out of town every time we got together.” He banged his fist on the table. “Damn it, I should have known better. If things weren’t so … rotten at home, maybe I wouldn’t have … hell, no sense blaming circumstances. No sense blaming Janet. The fact was, we did not have the kind of life recently that, among other things, promotes a healthy sexual existence between man and wife.”

  Smith made a few notes on a pad. He asked, “When did you meet Andrea, Paul—after she’d joined your father’s campaign staff?”

  “No. I met her several years ago at a party in Georgetown, sort of a business gathering at the home of one of my important customers. She was there with a date, but we had one of those locked-eyes reactions to each other all night. Before she left, she slipped me her phone number. I sat on it for a while. Then, one night, I had a fight with Janet, left the house, and called her. She suggested we meet for a drink. We did. One drink led to several, and we ended up driving to Maryland, where we made love for the first time.”

  “I see,” Smith said. “Then what? Did you suggest she join your father’s staff?”

  “I guess so. She told me how much she believed in my father’s cause, and how all the issues he stood for represented how she felt about things in this country. I probably did suggest that she apply for a job on his staff. Yes, exactly, that’s the way it happened. I suggested it, and told her I would put in a good word for her. She was hired about a week later.”

  “What did you know about her background, Paul?”

  “Not much, Mac. She was actually a very private person. Maybe that’s why I trusted her. Maybe that’s why we never went to her apartment. Maybe she didn’t want anybody there. Sometimes I wondered whether she had a live-in boyfriend, but it really didn’t matter.”

  “Did you ask her whether she had a boyfriend living with her?”

  “No. I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize the relationship. To be honest with you, Mac, I loved every minute we were together. It was sex the way you read about in cheap novels. She was good.” He looked at Smith, who said nothing. Ewald shrugged. “What can I say? I’m weak.”

  “You do know that Janet is still missing?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have no idea where she might have gone?”

  “None whatsoever. I called every place I could think of with no luck. Janet hates confrontation.”

  “It seems she confronted you pretty directly about your relationship with Andrea.”

  “Sure, but those were hysterical moments, times when she’d fly off the handle. She did that a lot. Janet’s kind of a split personality. She either reacts emotionally to something and throws a fit, or goes into a shell, runs away and hides. I guess she’s in her shell period now.”

  Smith was taken by the fact that Paul seemed to have little concern about his wife’s disappearance—even whether she was alive or dead—but he chalked it up to the strange relationship between them, and the emotionally unsettling situation Paul Ewald was in at the moment. He said, “Paul, I want you to say nothing to anyone unless I’m present. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Not only do you understand it, Paul, will you follow that advice?”

  “I’ll do my best, Mac. Have you talked to Mom and Dad?”

  “No, they’re out of town. I intend to touch base with them the minute I leave here. I’m sure they’ve heard the news by now. You haven’t heard from them?”

  “No.” His eyes misted. “God, Mac, it’s bad enough sitting here with you under these circumstances. I’m not sure I can face them. They won’t even let me wear shoes—it’s like I was a convicted murderer.”

  Smith patted Paul’s arm and smiled. “You’ll be out in a couple of hours, Paul, I promise you that.” He stood. “MPD’s got its neck way out on this, pulling you in like this.”

  Paul looked up at him. “I can’t believe you’re agreeing to help me, Mac. I thought you’d decided to never practice law again.”

  “Which just goes to show how weak I am. I don’t see how I can do otherwise, considering my long friendship with the family and caring for the cause, you might call it. By the way, Paul, I assume you’ll accept me as your attorney?”

  Paul’s lower lip trembled. “Accept you? How can I not? You’re the best.” He was crying. “Just lucky for me, I suppose, that I was born … with advantages.”

  Smith was tempted to wrap his arms around him and give him a bear hug, kind of a manly shoring up of his spirits, but he restrained himself. This was no time for gestures of sentiment. At best, they would be misunderstood. Still, he put his hand on Paul’s.

  Smith indicated to the guard that he was leaving. The door opened. Smith looked back at Ewald, who stood with his back to the door, his body moving in rhythm to his sobs.

  “I’ll be back, Paul. In the meantime, remember what you’ve promised me.”

  Smith placed a call from MPD to the office of Leonard Kramer, the District of Columbia’s district attorney. He was told that Kramer was out of the office and would not return for an hour. “Please have him call me the minute he comes in,” Smith said, not trying to soften the anger in his voice. He identified himself to the secretary, indicated that he was representing Paul Ewald, and reiterated the urgency of his call.

  A few reporters from early that morning had continued to wait outside Smith’s home. He took the same tack—“No comment, sorry”—and entered the house, where Rufus greated him in his usual exuberant fashion. “No comment for you, either,” Smith said, rubbing the huge animal behind the ears. He poured himself coffee from the carafe and sat at the desk in his study. Twenty minutes later, Leslie Ewald called. They’d just returned to Washington. “This is outrageous, Mac,” she said. “How dare they arrest Paul!”

  Smith thought of Riga’s word games and decided not to play them with Leslie. “My sentiments exactly, Leslie. I just came from visiting Paul. He’s all right, shaken naturally by the events, but holding up very nicely. I assured him he’d be out before the day is over. I have a call in now to the district attorney.”

  “Can they do this legally, abduct him out of his own house in the middle of the night?”

  “No … well, they shouldn’t, but they did, and they’ll get away with it unless Paul wants to bring civil charges.”

  “I’m sure that’s the last thing on anyone’s mind,” Leslie said. “Can we see him? I mean now?”

  “I could arrange it, but I recommend against it. Give me until early afternoon. I’ll be in touch. For now, let me clear the line for the DA’s call. I’ll be back to you as soon as I know something.”

  Kramer called and said in a low, rich voice that always seemed to contain an imminent laugh, “The last thing I thought I’d be doing was calling Mac Smith as defense counsel. How are you, Mac?”

  “I’d be a lot better if Paul Ewald were sitting at home right now eating a tuna-fish sandwich. What the hell could have prompted you to haul him in this way?”

  “Hold on, Mac. There’s a division of labor here. We prosecute, MPD investigates.”

  “You aren’t suggesting that Joe Riga did this of his own volition without an okay from you? I know Joe. Doesn’t wash.”

  “You do realize, Mac, that we aren’t dealing here with your run-of-the-mill murder case.”

  “True, but we are dealing with a run-of-the-mill Constitution under which we function. That make sense to you?”

  Kramer was silent a moment, then he said, “It was MPD’s opinion that Paul Ewald was a threat to disappear. They acted on that instinct, and I can’t say I blame them.”

  “Are you charging Ewald?”

  “Not at the moment. He’s cons
idered a prime suspect, and sure as hell is an important material witness. We’re operating under the theory that Mr. Ewald, the younger of the two, is damned important to the case.”

  “Who concocted that theory, Len? I get the feeling you’re talking about someone other than yourself.”

  There was silence. Then Kramer said, “There’s been a little pressure.”

  “Pressure? Who’d put pressure on you, Len? Ken Ewald is a Democrat. You wouldn’t be sitting in your chair if you weren’t, and your boss, too.”

  “Look, Mac, let’s drop this.”

  “Happy to, Len, provided Paul Ewald is back at home eating a tuna-fish sandwitch by two o’clock.”

  “We can arrange that.”

  “I know you can. The question is will you?”

  “You have my word.”

  “Good. You are, of course, aware of the embarrassment to Paul’s father, Senator Ewald.”

  “I’m not in the business of embarrassing presidential candidates.” He was angry.

  “That may be true of you, Len, but somebody sure as hell knows what the embarrassment factor is here. Thanks.”

  “Welcome back to the nasty side of life, Professor.”

  Smith worked through the lunch hour making notes on a yellow legal pad. The ringing of the phone stopped him. It was Annabel Reed calling from her Georgetown gallery. Smith filled her in on what had happened that morning and asked what was new with her.

  “I think I’m going to be able to buy Tlazolteotl.”

  “Tlazolteotl?”

  “You mispronounce it.”

  “So what? What is it?”

  “The ancient Aztec goddess of childbirth. I’ve been negotiating for it with a dealer in New York for a long time. Dumbarton Oaks wanted it, too, but they already have a superb example. That was the point I kept making. I guess I was effective in making it. It’s mine!”

  Smith smiled at her enthusiasm. He loved her in all weather and temperaments, but responded with special verve when she was high on having captured a prize for her gallery.

  “When do you take possession of Tlazolteotl?”

  She laughed. “You mispronounced it again.”

  “Sorry. I’ve seen pictures of it. That’s the stone rendering of a woman squatting in childbirth, right?”

  “Yes, but you don’t have to be so crude about it. A celebration is definitely in order. My treat, your choice. I’ll even go to one of those macho steak houses you like.”

  “I have a better idea. Let’s celebrate at your place. I’d like to stay away from the public for a while.”

  “Fine, but if we’re celebrating at home, the meal is on you. Cook it, or bring it in.”

  “I’d love to cook it, but I won’t have the time to do justice to the sort of meal the goddess of childbirth deserves. Trust me, as they say in Hollywood. Six o’clock?”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Smith’s phone rang all afternoon, causing him to put the answering machine on so he could screen calls and decide whether or not to take them. He debated returning to MPD headquarters to be present when Paul was released but decided against it. Len Kramer was a man of his word. That was confirmed when the phone rang at 2:15. It was Kramer. “Paul Ewald is on his way home to make a sandwich, Mac.”

  “Thank you,” Smith said, “for letting me know.”

  He called Leslie Ewald and told her that Paul had been released and should be home shortly. He made a couple of other calls before a wave of fatigue came over him. He took a shower and a short nap. Then, before leaving for Annabel’s house, he called the Information operator in Baltimore and said, “Last name is Buffolino, Anthony Buffolino. It might be listed as a residence or as a private detective agency.” The operator gave him both.

  He hung up and stared at the phone, then lifted the receiver and dialed Tony Buffolino’s home number.

  “… and so I called his home and got an answering machine. He sounded angry on his message. He said something like, ‘I’m not here, so come on over and rip me off if you want. Otherwise, say what it is you have to say and I’ll get back to you sometime.”

  Annabel raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “Lovely dinner you brought in. For you, it’s takeout; for me, bringing in. Are you sure you want to get involved with him again, Mac?”

  “Yes, I think I do. He’s exactly the person I need.”

  “Why do you need anyone?” she asked. “Paul has been released. Do you think there’s a likelihood he’ll be charged with the murder?”

  “I don’t know, but it remains a distinct possibility. Besides, if it isn’t Paul, it could be someone else very close to Ken and Leslie. Paul’s release doesn’t end anything, Annabel. To the contrary, I think it represents the beginning of something long and difficult. Tony was a superb investigator, probably the best MPD had. Yes, I think I could use him … if he calls back, and if he’s interested. We didn’t part company on the best of terms.”

  “I could never understand that. You saved him from criminal prosecution. He should have been grateful.”

  “He didn’t see it that way. He was bounced off the force, which, for him, was the ultimate penalty. He loved being a cop, loved it like no one I’ve ever known. At any rate, I asked him to call me at home. If he does, he’ll get my answering machine, which, as you know, takes a more civil tone than his.”

  Annabel laughed. “Of course I know it. It’s my voice. I even tried to come up with a British accent for you.”

  “And you were good. A Brit wouldn’t buy it, but Tony will.” He moved to where she was sitting on her living room couch and put his arm around her. “When do you take possession of the woman hunched over in childbirth?”

  “So crude.”

  “Just practicing for Tony Buffolino.”

  “Two weeks. I pick it up in New York.”

  “I’ll go with you, to guard you and the stone brood mare.”

  “That would be nice. We can make a weekend of it.”

  He pressed his face to her long white neck. “You know I love you, Annabel.”

  “Sometimes.” The feel of his hands on the front of her robe was too pleasurable to protest. He continued to stroke her, his fingertips tracing the lines of her body beneath the silk, soon teasing, provoking, causing her to make sounds that to Smith sounded like the “meow” of a contented Siamese. She began to touch him, too, and brushed her lips across his, then stabbed fiercely at his lips, laughing until he parted the sash of her robe and moved his fingers over her skin.

  “I am at a large disadvantage …,” she said playfully, her voice trailing off like his fingers. “Get naked, Smith.”

  He hated to break the bond between them, but he did. Moments later, they were both nude and heading for the bedroom.

  Her housekeeper had changed the linen that morning. Between the clean, smooth sheets, they easily slid into first a gentle, then a more aggressive, display of their hunger for each other.

  After they were spent, she whispered only, “Whew!”

  “I hate to bring up a rival,” Smith said, getting up from the bed, “but I want to call my machine.” He picked up the phone, punched in his code, and listened to messages.

  “Did Buffolino call?” she asked when he was finished.

  “Yes. He said, ‘A blast from the past.’ Then he added, ‘Smith, I want to tell you to drop dead. But I learned a couple of lives ago never to shut the door to anything. Call me. Any hour. I’m up late. I got this thing for old movies.’ ”

  “A character.”

  “That and other things. Do you mind if I call him now?”

  “Why should I mind? You’ve already seen to it that I’ve suffered my delightful ‘little death.’…” She smiled. “ ‘Deaths’ is more accurate.”

  “I’ll use the phone in the living room.”

  “No, stay here. I can touch you while you talk.”

  He dialed. “Tony?”

  “Yeah. Smith?”

  “Yes. I got your message.”
/>   “I got yours, too. Hey, I heard about you finding the body of that chick who got it.”

  “Yes, I was walking my dog, and …” Nobody cared that he was walking his dog. “Tony, I have a case that I thought you might be interested in working on.”

  “A case?” He snickered. “What’d they do, fire you at the U? What’d you do, put the make on a Betty Co-ed?” A louder laugh this time. “Nice young stuff at the U, huh?”

  “Nothing like that, Tony. I’d like to talk to you tomorrow.”

  “That’ll be tough. I’m in the middle of … renovations … on my office … suite. I got a big case going. I may win it. It’s called prosperity. You want breakfast? You want to buy breakfast? I’ll come to D.C., any place you say as long as it’s good. No greasy spoons, okay?”

  Smith couldn’t help but smile as he listened to that voice he’d heard so often when he was defending Buffolino. “Sure,” he said, “breakfast, my treat, my pleasure. Seven o’clock at the …?”

  “Seven o’clock? What, are you crazy? I work nights, man. Make it nine.”

  Smith sighed. “All right, nine, Tony. Be on time.”

  “I’m always on time. You know that. I just like to be realistic. You know the airlines build in their schedules all kinds of time so that they look like they arrive on time? All a fraud. All a fraud. I pick a realistic ETA and I make it. I’ll see you at nine.”

  “One question, Tony.”

  “What?”

  “Are you available to take on a case that could run a while?”

  “I’m up to my duff in cases, Mac, but I’ll check my calendar. Maybe I can juggle things, if I decide to work for you. Know what?”

  “What, Tony?”

  “It’ll be good to see you again.”

  “I’ll enjoy it, too. Nine o’clock at … where are we meeting?”

  Buffolino said, “The Jockey Club in the Ritz-Carlton. We’ll have a … whatta they call it … a power breakfast.”

  “Fine. Nine at the Jockey Club.”

  “You got it, Mac Smith.” He paused. “Hey, you okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sound different.”