Murder on the Potomac

by Margaret Truman

  “I think so, Mr. Tierney,” Eikenberg said, recrossing her legs. “Obviously, we’ll have more questions for you. I trust you don’t have travel plans in the near future.”

  Tierney smiled, a perfect set of white teeth made more so by the tan of his face. “As a matter of fact, I do. Are you telling me I’m not to leave town?”

  “That would be a good idea,” she said.

  Tierney asked Smith, “What do you think of this, Counselor?”

  Smith shrugged. “I’m not your attorney, Wendell.”

  “Maybe we should rectify that.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible.” Smith spoke to Eikenberg: “You aren’t really suggesting that Mr. Tierney cancel important business travel, are you? Is he a suspect?”

  “Mr. Tierney is important to the resolution of this case, just as others are,” she answered. Diplomatic, Smith thought, to not confirm suspect status. He stared at her. She smiled and said, “Mr. Tierney—who is not your client—is free to travel, provided he lets me know in advance of his plans.”

  “No problem,” Tierney said. “Nothing extensive. Just one, maybe two, overnight trips.”

  Tierney showed the officers out of the house. When he returned, he came up behind Smith and kneaded his shoulders. “I loved it, Mac, the way she backed down about me traveling when you confronted her.”

  Smith winced, not at the pressure exerted by Tierney’s fingers but because he didn’t like people who gave massages without invitation. He slid out of the chair and went to a window overlooking the river, watching a small red boat moving fast downriver. He turned and faced Tierney. “Well, here I am, Wendell. What can I do for you?”

  “What you just did a few minutes ago. Keep me out of this.”

  Smith shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the sill. “There is no one who can, as you put it, keep you out of it. You and Pauline worked closely together for years. It’s my understanding that she was like a member of the family. As pleasantly as Detective Eikenberg put it, you are a suspect.”

  “Nonsense,” Tierney said, touching a spot on a paneled wall that caused doors to open. Behind was a fully stocked liquor cabinet. “Drink?” he asked without looking back.

  “Thanks, no,” Smith said. “I really should be going.”

  “Not yet.” Then, as though realizing he was in no position to make demands, he added, “Please. Just a few more minutes.”

  “A three-minute splash of bourbon on the rocks.”

  Seated across from each other, Tierney leaned forward, elbows on knees, and fixed Smith in a compelling stare. “Mac, let me level with you. Pauline’s murder is going to have a dreadful impact on a lot of people, including me.”

  Smith said nothing. Silently, he wondered at Tierney’s coldness. His closest aide and family friend had been found murdered only hours earlier. Yet he mentioned it only in terms of its potential impact upon him.

  Smith’s silence prompted Tierney to continue. “Pauline’s long tenure with me has naturally brought her into close contact with everyone with whom I deal, including my family. There have been occasional problems over the years where they’re concerned.”

  “Your family?”

  “Yes.”

  “What sort of problems?”

  Tierney sat back and thought before replying. “Nothing major, Mac, but there have been times when Pauline’s—how shall I say it?—when Pauline’s curt, abrasive manner rubbed people the wrong way.”

  “Marilyn?” Smith asked, referring to Tierney’s wife.

  Tierney nodded. “The point is,” he said, “Marilyn and I have been traveling a rocky road these days. That’s between us, of course. To compound that, I’m involved in some sensitive deals that could be crucial to the future of Tierney Development. They demand my full attention. I can’t afford interruptions.”

  Smith considered whether to say it, then decided what the hell. “Wendell, I’m hearing you voice concerns about a lot of things. I haven’t once heard you talk about the tragedy that occurred last night.”

  His message prompted a change in Tierney’s otherwise consistent expression. He closed his eyes as though to shut them against the unpleasant truth he’d just heard and slowly shook his head. When he opened his eyes, he said, “Mac, you should have been here when I received the call about Pauline. I was devastated, damn near broke down. But I happen to be a man who believes that life is a series of problems to be solved. That takes clear, unemotional thinking. I had my emotional response. Now it’s time to meet any resulting problems head-on.” A smile. “As a lawyer, I’m sure you agree.”

  Smith said nothing.

  Tierney slapped his hands on his thighs and stood. “Will you represent me?” he asked.

  “Represent you? For what? You haven’t been accused of anything. I no longer practice law. And unless you’ve forgotten, you have enough top-notch lawyers on retainer to make up another Supreme Court. Maybe a better one. No, you don’t need me.”

  “Perhaps not in an official capacity, but as a friend and adviser? Sure, I have lawyers at my disposal, but none with your experience, Mac. We’re talking murder here, and I’m aware of your previous experience with that nasty business. All I ask is that I be able to confer with you if things get too complicated.”

  “You know you can always talk to me, Wendell. Let’s leave it at that. What plans have been made for Pauline’s funeral?”

  “Haven’t even thought about it. I suppose I’ll end up burying her. There isn’t anyone else. She hasn’t had any contact with her ex-husband, and as far as family goes—”

  “Pauline was married?”

  “Long ago. It lasted less than a year. That’s all I know. She wasn’t big on discussing personal matters. At any rate, the police are doing an autopsy. Will slow things up, I suppose.”

  “Undoubtedly.” Smith stood. “I think I should go.”

  He extended his hand to Tierney, who took it in both of his and pumped it. “Thanks, Mac. You know, the way you handled Eikenberg was a joy to behold. Spectacular woman, isn’t she?”

  “And bright. I remember her as a student. An ability to clamp down hard on a concept, chew, digest, and understand it.”

  Tierney put his hand over Smith’s shoulder and walked him through the house to the rear entrance. “Before I forget,” he said, “that private investigator of yours still in business?”

  “Tony? Tony Buffolino? I wouldn’t call him my investigator. But yes, he is. Still in business. Why?”

  “I may call on him again to beef up security around here and at the office.”

  “You really feel you need additional security?”

  “You never know, Mac. Maybe someone did this to Pauline to get at me. I have a family to protect, and I intend to do that. Your friend Buffolino did a good job last time I used him.”

  “He usually does. Well, Wendell, we’ll be in touch.”

  “Of course. See you and Annabel on Saturday?”

  Smith frowned. “The cruise? I assumed it would be canceled, considering what’s happened.”

  “No. Been scheduled for months. There’s no reason for people to have to alter their plans, especially since most of them really had very little to do with Pauline. Life goes on, Mac. So does the Saturday cruise.”

  “I’ll talk to Annabel about it. Thanks for the drink.”

  Smith reached his car, opened the door, and looked back at the house. Marilyn Tierney stood in a second-floor window, her face pulled down into an expression that was at once sad and angry. Smith waved. She closed the drapes.

  9

  An Hour Later

  Annabel was rearranging a kitchen cupboard when Mac returned carrying duck pâté, salad, and a baguette from the French Market. She had to stretch to reach the top shelf, which caused her dress to ride up her legs. “Lovely sight,” Smith said, touching her hip. “Lifts your skirt and my spirits.”

  “Watch it, mister,” she said, returning to a flat-footed posture and accepting his kiss. “
Oh, you have a message on your machine, Mac.” Theirs was a his-and-her answering machine household.

  “Who?” he asked as he emptied the bags.

  “A Detective Eikenberg. Actually, the message was more for me. She wants to interview me regarding Pauline’s murder.”

  “Why you?”

  “Go listen.”

  He went to the study, and hit Play. It rewound, then Darcy Eikenberg’s voice came smoothly from the small speaker like an all-night disk jockey playing “Misty.”

  This is Darcy Eikenberg, Professor Smith. Seeing you today brought back fond memories, reminded me how much I’d learned from you. At any rate, I understand your wife was present at the board meeting of the National Building Museum the night Pauline Juris was murdered. I would like an opportunity to speak with her as soon as possible, and for you to be present as well, if that doesn’t pose too much of an inconvenience. Again, it was wonderful seeing you.

  She left the number of her direct MPD line.

  Annabel entered the study as Mac was resetting the machine. “Routine,” he said. “They’ll interview everyone who knew her.”

  “Of course. What did she mean, ‘fond memories’?”

  Smith laughed. “She was at Wendell’s this afternoon questioning him. I had her in a class not long ago. She’s close to her doctorate in urban studies, or something like that. And I caught a lecture she gave at the university on forensic police techniques.”

  “You didn’t tell me about that,” Annabel said.

  “Nothing to tell,” Smith replied. “When do you want to get together with her?”

  “Whenever.”

  “I suggest you do it quickly, get it over with. Call her back.”

  “I thought you might want to do that. She made a point of wanting you present.”

  “Can’t imagine why, but okay. What’s good for you?”

  “I have to be at the gallery late afternoon tomorrow. Any time before that will be fine. How did it go with Wendell?”

  “He’s upset, of course. Maybe that’s not the right word. He’s concerned what kind of impact Pauline’s murder will have on him. Maybe the family.”

  “That sounds cold.”

  “Probably sounds colder than he means it to be. He hinted that all isn’t exactly pure romance with him and Marilyn.”

  Annabel said over her shoulder as she headed for the kitchen, “I sensed that the first time I met them. He’s a cold man who tries to be warm. Wants to be diplomatic, but being blunt comes easier.”

  Smith followed. “Pauline was killed with a blunt instrument,” he said.

  “The detective told you that?”

  “Yeah. Wendell’s a prime suspect, of course. Can’t go out of town without prior notification to the police.”

  Annabel began unwrapping the packages Smith had brought from the market. “What do you think she’ll ask me?”

  “The detective? What you might have observed the night of the board meeting. Did you notice anything unusual with Pauline?”

  “No. She was businesslike as usual. And pleasant.”

  “Seem upset about anything?”

  “No.”

  “She say anything to anyone that might …?”

  “Mac, I appreciate being prepped, but it gives me the chills.”

  “Sorry. Force of habit.” He laughed. “I did the same thing with Darcy, asked a lot of questions. She didn’t appreciate it, either.”

  They enjoyed a quiet dinner. During it, Mac fell into a prolonged silence. “Something wrong?” Annabel asked.

  “I was thinking of that kid who drowned up at the falls. It keeps coming back to me like an out-of-control VCR. Actually, when I see that little child down there in the water, I think of Geof.” Geof was Mac’s son who died at the hand of a drunken driver.

  When her husband slipped into that dark mode, Annabel knew there was nothing she could say or do to help it pass. It simply would, and did, a few minutes later.

  Dinner dishes cleared, they settled in for an evening of reading. First, Mac said, “Want me to call now and set up an appointment? She might still be at MPD.”

  “Sure.”

  Eikenberg answered on the first ring.

  “Mac Smith here. I spoke with my wife, and she’ll make herself available to you any time tomorrow morning.” He listened, placed his hand over the mouthpiece, and said to Annabel, “Ten?”

  “Ten is fine,” Annabel said.

  Mac confirmed it with Eikenberg. “Yes, I’ll be here,” he said, “unless you prefer that I not be. All right. Fine. See you then.”

  10

  The Next Morning

  Anthony A. Buffolino, private investigator, gasped as a sharp pain stabbed him in the back. He was on the floor of his office on G Street, between Fourteenth and Fifteenth. He grimaced and rolled onto his side. “Al!” he yelled.

  The door between the office and reception area opened, and his third and most recent wife—one half of what was undoubtedly his most successful marriage—stood in it. “What’s the matter?”

  “I pulled something,” he groaned, trying to arch his back into a less painful position. He wore a purple-and-white polyester sweat suit. Beneath him was a red-white-and-blue starred-and-striped plastic exercise mat.

  The phone rang. Alicia disappeared into the reception area. “Al, for Christsake, I’m dyin’ here,” Buffolino moaned.

  She returned. “You’d better take this, Tony. It sounds like a client.”

  “Take it? I can’t even get up.” He painfully rolled himself into a sitting position.

  Alicia came to him and helped him to his feet. “You’d better take it,” she repeated, supporting him with the aid of the desk. “It sounds like business. We haven’t had a new client for weeks.”

  He slumped into his desk chair, picked up the phone, and said, “Hello.”

  “Mr. Buffalino?”

  “That’s right. Anthony Buff-OH-lino.”

  “Mr. Buffalino, I was recommended to you by Walt Symington. I believe you handled a case for him last year.”

  Tony flipped through his Rolodex, which was entirely mental. Symington? He had done work for somebody with that name. A matrimonial. The guy, a bank big shot, as Tony recalled, thought his wife was cheating on him and wanted proof. The husband had been right. There was an overabundance of proof. Tony delivered a surveillance log and photographs and collected his check. What Mr. Symington eventually did with the information was his own business. You never ask about those things.

  “All right,” Buffolino said, adjusting himself in his chair. The pain had subsided. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m not sure we should discuss this over the phone. Is your line secure?”

  Buffolino frowned. Secure? What does he think this is, the CIA? “We can talk,” he said.

  “I believe my wife is having an affair with my best friend. My former best friend.”

  “Sorry to hear that. So why are you calling me?”

  His blunt question caused the caller to pause before saying, “I would like you to prove my suspicion for me.”

  Buffolino didn’t dare look up at Alicia, who now stood at the desk, hands pressed into it. “Sorry,” Tony said, “but Buffolino and Associates don’t do matrimonials.”

  The responses from both ends—through the phone and on the other side of the desk—were instantaneous.

  “T-o-n-y!” Alicia hissed.

  “But Walt told me you did that sort of thing and were very good at it.”

  “Look, thanks for calling, but we don’t do matrimonial cases. Me and my staff strictly do corporate security and espionage, government assignments. Minimum fee is three hundred thousand.” He hung up.

  “What is wrong with you?” Alicia shouted. “We’re behind on the rent again, the bills are piling up at home, and—”

  Buffolino waved her off. “I told you, Alicia, doing matrimonials is lowlife. I told you that if we’re gonna make a score here in D.C., we have to take the high road. Cla
ss. Image. Be politically correct, I think they call it. That’s where it’s at.”

  She slapped her hands against her sides. “Some high road,” she said. “Tell that to the phone company when they yank the phones—Mr. Class.” She stomped from the room, her feet hitting the floor for emphasis like a sumo wrestler.

  Buffolino sat back and closed his eyes. She was right. But he had to stick to the decision he’d made recently to take only cases that enhanced his reputation. All he had to do was hold out. How long he could do so was the big question.

  The phone rang. Buffolino stared at it until Alicia opened the door and said, “It’s the high road calling. Wendell Tierney.”

  Buffolino sat up straight and adjusted a tie that wasn’t there. He cleared his throat. “Hello,” he said in his deepest voice, then picked up the phone and repeated, “Hello, Mr. Tierney. How nice to hear from you. What a pleasure … Yes?…Of course we can meet today.… At your home?…My sincere pleasure, Mr. Tierney. I’ll be at there at two sharp—I was sorry to hear about the untimely death of your associate. Terrible tragedy. Like in a Shakespeare play.… Yes, sir. Two this afternoon.”

  He hung up.

  “So?” Alicia asked.

  “So everything’s cool, Al. Tierney has a big assignment for me. You know what that means. I get to meet more of his big-shot friends like I did last time, only that assignment didn’t last long enough for me to score. This time, I get a feeling it might be long term. See what I mean, babe? You stick to the high road, you don’t get stuck in the mud. Run my suit down for a quick clean and press. Please. I’m going out to get a haircut.”

  “How’s your back?” she asked.

  “My back? Never felt better.”

  11

  That Same Morning

  “… and you say you observed nothing unusual about Ms. Juris at the board meeting.”

  Annabel, Mac, and Detective Eikenberg sat at the Smiths’ kitchen table. Darcy Eikenberg had been late for their ten o’clock interview. She’d arrived at 10:12; it was now 10:20.