Rufus continued to stare at him.
Smith sighed. “All right. All right. I change my plea, Your Honor. Guilty—but with an explanation.” He took a leash from where it hung from a wooden peg and slipped it over the dog’s head. “Walk time,” he said.
15
Monday Morning
“Professor Smith.”
Mac turned at the mention of his name. “Good morning,” he said. “What brings you to these hallowed halls?”
“A meeting. I’ve been named adjunct professor of economics,” Sun Ben Cheong said. He sounded pleased with his announcement. His face said nothing.
“Well, welcome. And congratulations.” They shook hands.
“Nothing like a real professor,” Cheong said. “Just one class a semester on investment banking.”
“I can’t think of a better person to teach it. And anyone who can teach well is real—and rare. Missed you on the cruise Saturday.”
“Couldn’t make it, Professor Smith. I was out of town on business. I understand it was a typically pleasant day on the Marilyn.”
“Extremely.”
“Well, nice to see you. I’m honored to be on the same faculty.”
“The honor is all mine.”
Smith caught up on an hour’s worth of routine administrative details in his office before leaving Lerner Hall and heading for Twenty-fifth Street. He was early for his lunch date at the Foggy Bottom Cafe and considered taking a walk to kill the minutes. Instead, he entered the restaurant, sat at the bar, and had a Bloody Shame, a Virgin Mary renamed and disarmed—in England, he seemed to remember—to appease Catholic waiters who balked at placing the more familiar order.
Smith sipped the spicy, reinforced tomato juice and thought about bumping into Sun Ben Cheong at the university. From everything Smith had heard, Cheong was a financial genius. Which didn’t, of course, necessarily translate into being a good teacher. Time would tell.
The pretty young barmaid was in the middle of a story about how her car died the previous night when someone tapped Smith on the shoulder. “Am I late?” Darcy Eikenberg asked.
Smith glanced at his watch. “Right on time,” he said. “The punctual detective.”
“And the early professor.”
“Preferable to being the late professor. Drink?”
“I may not look it, but I am on duty. A rain check? Sometime when I’m off duty?” She wore a properly fitted beige sweater and knee-length brown leather skirt.
Smith tossed a few bills on the bar and indicated to the host they were ready to be seated.
A club soda with lime in front of her, Smith’s mild Mary in front of him, they bantered about the weather, sports, the day’s political headlines.
“… I really think he’ll win in November,” she said. “And I’m delighted you took me up on my offer to have lunch.”
“At first, I didn’t think I could. Have lunch. No, I don’t think he’ll win.”
“Small bet?”
“Sure. Then I realized a previous lunch date had been canceled. So, here we are, Detective. Tell me how the Juris case is progressing—if you can.”
“First, the bet. Ten dollars?”
“I’m a lowly professor. Make it a dollar.”
“You’ve got it. The Juris case? Of course I can discuss it with you. I can do anything. But—I may choose not to. Let me see. You called about the letters to Ms. Juris written by Mr. Tierney. Yes, we found letters in Ms. Juris’s apartment. They came from him.”
“So sure?”
“No reason not to be. They were very intimate and contained material only he was likely to know.”
“How many letters?” Smith asked.
“A half-dozen.”
“More than he led me to believe.”
“The number doesn’t impress me. One would be enough.”
Smith cocked his head. “Enough for what?”
“Enough to convince me that Mr. Tierney and Ms. Juris were having an affair.”
“Somehow that strikes me as too large a leap in assumption.”
She smiled, reached across the table, and placed her manicured fingertips on top of his hand. “You’re right, of course. It is just that, too large a leap. At least at this juncture.”
“Wendell denies having written the letters.”
“What does he have to say about having had an affair with her?”
“We haven’t discussed that. I don’t believe he did. Have an affair, that is.”
“An unusual man.”
“I don’t think so.” Smith started to exclaim that he hadn’t had an affair since being married to Annabel, or during his longer marriage to his first wife. He didn’t. Not having an affair outside of marriage was as private a matter as having one. “ ’Tain’t nobody’s business if I do,” as Billy Holiday once explained musically. Or don’t, Smith added to the lyric.
“You will show the letters to Wendell,” he said, his tone saying he expected an affirmative answer.
She disappointed him. “Maybe, maybe not. Depends on how they fit into the overall investigation.”
“I see.” He looked up at the young waiter who stood over the table, order pad and pencil at the ready. Smith would have his usual chicken Caesar salad but asked for a menu for Eikenberg. She chose a grilled shrimp salad.
The order in, Eikenberg said, “I suppose you read about the deceased’s former husband, Dr. Wharton.”
“Yes. I understand they were married only briefly.”
“About as long as my husband and I lasted.”
Smith draped an arm over his chair’s back. “I have to admit a certain curiosity about marriages of extremely short duration,” he said. “The people in them must not have known each other very well.”
“I suppose that would represent the majority of cases. It wasn’t true in my marriage. My husband and I knew each other too well. We went through undergraduate school together.”
Smith was happy the service was unusually swift this day. He didn’t want to go any further with this phase of their conversation. He speared a chunk of chicken.
“Go ahead,” Eikenberg said. “Ask me all the questions you want about why my marriage ended with the speed of a single bullet.”
Smith glanced up and grinned. “No,” he said. “No questions. But free-associate if you’d like.”
“Okay. He was a handsome devil. Still is. The juices flowed fast and furious. God, I thought, this is a miracle. Everyone I knew was going with guys who were okay, but this was different. This was heaven-sent. Meant to be.” She giggled. “And so we got married the minute we graduated and settled into our ‘adult’ lives.”
“Sounds like it followed the script,” said Smith.
“Oh, it did. Except whoever wrote it started changing the lines. Nick, my husband, who always said he wanted to start his own business, settled instead for a job with the Census Bureau. That’s what brought us here to D.C. He became a bureaucrat, and I joined the force.”
“How did he react to his wife becoming a cop?”
“Hated it. Thought all women cops were lesbians. At any rate, we started to go our separate ways, living together sometimes, living apart more often than not. Modern. We’re good friends.”
“He still with Census?” Smith asked.
“Sure is. A big shot.”
“And you climbed the ladder at MPD.”
She laughed. “Too quick for Nick. This lesbian was accused of using her sexual wiles to gain favor with the male brass. Meet the original androgynous woman.” Her laugh was more throaty this time.
“An interesting tale,” Smith said, digging into his salad. “I’m glad you’re still friends.”
“How long have you and Mrs. Smith been married?”
“Not long enough,” he replied.
“Nice,” she said. “How long is that?”
“Three years.”
“Second marriage for both?”
“For me. My wife and son were killed by a drunk on the
Beltway.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Needless to say, I contribute to MADD,” Smith said. “You mentioned Dr. Wharton, Pauline’s former husband. I read that he was coming to Washington to be questioned.”
“Already has. He came, and we questioned him.”
“Anything come of it?”
“First, let me ask: Are you serving as Tierney’s attorney?”
“More like a friend in court—in this case, out of court.”
The pretty detective said, “Wharton happened to have been in town the night she was murdered, met with her briefly, at least according to his story. It seems they owned a piece of land together in West Virginia and got together to discuss whether to sell it.”
“Ah-hah,” Smith said with exaggerated flourish. “A suspect.”
“Along with everybody else. No shortage here.”
“Was he the last person to see her alive?” Smith asked.
“Not sure. She also met late that night with the director of the theater group that puts on those historical murders for Mr. Tierney’s Scarlet Sin Society.”
“Seymour Fletcher,” Smith said.
“Yes. You know him?”
“You asked me that at the house. No, I don’t. By the way, I asked my wife about having overheard that conversation between Wendell and Pauline. She had but forgot about it.”
“Fine.”
“What brought about this late-night meeting between them?” Smith asked.
“Money. According to Mr. Fletcher, Ms. Juris was dispatched by Tierney to lay down the law about budgets. Evidently, the theater group has a habit of exceeding them.”
“Par for the course in this town—and in Hollywood. I take it there was animosity between them.”
“Mr. Fletcher’s hatred of her drools out of both corners of his mouth every time he mentions her name.”
“Another suspect.”
Eikenberg laughed softly. “As I said, the whole world is suspect at this point, Mac.” She touched his hand again and drew a deep breath. Smith couldn’t tell whether it was in preparation to say something difficult, or a sigh of contentment.
Her next comment failed to answer the question. She said flatly, “You’d like to see the letters.”
Smith was surprised that she even raised the possibility. “Yes,” he said. “I would.”
She leaned forward, and her face lightened. “Then you are Tierney’s attorney.”
“No, I am not his attorney. Are you offering to show me the letters?”
Her expression was that of a mother deciding whether a child had been good enough to receive a reward. They locked eyes. “No,” she said. “But that’s today. There’s always, as you’ve heard, tomorrow.”
Smith said gruffly, “Sometimes tomorrow doesn’t show up for people in trouble. Okay, you’ve been forth-coming about the letters, although you really haven’t told me any more than you told Wendell. I suppose I can’t blame you for that. I like people who play by the rules. But maybe you’ll tell me just how intimate the letters really are.”
“Do you mean were they filled with prurient, erogenous memories of intense sexual encounters between them, replete with loving descriptions of bodies and passionate moans? No, not that bad. They are—and I think the term I used originally is apt—they are love letters. Letters from a man to a woman with whom he is very much in love.”
Up until that statement, Smith had been neutral about whether the letters had been written by Tierney. Now he had doubts. Tierney might have been involved with Pauline Juris sexually, but the pragmatic businessman would not have fallen in love, and certainly wouldn’t have gushed poetic on paper. Smith didn’t say what he was thinking. He waited for Eikenberg to say more.
She did. “I think it only fair to tell you, Mac”—the use of his first name continued to be, at once, unsettling and pleasant—“that someone has leaked the letters.”
Smith straightened in his chair. “Leaked them to whom? The press?”
She avoided his eyes by focusing upon her half-eaten lunch.
“I’m afraid so.”
His anger showed.
She looked up and shook her head in a gesture of sadness. “They’ll be in the papers tomorrow morning.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you can’t release those letters to Wendell Tierney, yet they end up in the goddamn newspapers?”
She held up her hands in a gesture of defense. “Don’t say ‘you.’ I had nothing to do with it.”
“Then who did? Who had custody of them within MPD?”
“The evidence unit.”
“Some unit,” Smith said.
“I know, I know,” she said. “I’ve demanded an internal investigation to find out who leaked them.”
“After the horse is gone.”
“Yes. But I didn’t know the barn door was open.”
“The actual letters have been given to the press?”
“Oh, no. The letters are still in the Juris file. My understanding is that someone told a reporter what they contained.”
Small comfort, Smith thought. As angry as he was at the news, he realized there was nothing to be gained by beating up on her. He sighed in resignation. “Okay,” he said, “I appreciate being told this. I’ll pass on the information to Wendell. It’s going to be devastating to him and his family.”
For the first time since walking into the River Inn, Darcy Eikenberg seemed flustered. She started to say something, stopped, then said, “I am sincerely sorry, Mac, that what should have been a pleasant lunch has ended up this way. All I can do is assure you of one thing. I am as angry and indignant as you are about what has happened. I just hope you’ll transmit that to Mr. Tierney.”
“Sure. I really should be going.” He motioned for the check. Eikenberg grabbed it. “My lunch, my suggestion, my check.”
“Can we do this again? Soon?” she asked outside, extending her hand.
His determination to say, “I don’t think that would be a good idea” turned into, “Perhaps. Thanks for the lunch—and the information.” He shook her hand.
Smith had gone straight from lunch to the Yates Field House at Georgetown University for a mind-clearing workout. He’d been a member for years. Although he had free access to facilities at his university, he preferred to stick with the familiar—at least where a gym was involved. He exercised vigorously for almost two hours, culminating with enough laps in the pool that he thought he might drown from exhaustion.
He returned home at four-thirty after picking up two pieces of swordfish and salad makings for dinner. He called Wendell Tierney and was informed that he was away overnight on business. He pressed for a way to reach Tierney and was given the name and number of the Waldorf Astoria. He left a message with the hotel operator to have Tierney call him as soon as he got it.
Annabel arrived home as he was preparing the swordfish for grilling on a hibachi on their patio. She spent a few minutes at her desk in the bedroom before changing into a sweatsuit and joining him outside. They kissed. “How was your day?” he asked.
“Basically hectic but nonproductive,” she replied. “Yours?”
“I suppose the same could be said for me, although I did manage to get in a good workout this afternoon.”
“Did you follow up with Detective Eikenberg?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. Bad news for Wendell. Someone at MPD leaked the contents of the letters to the press. According to Eikenberg, it’ll be in the papers tomorrow.”
“Oh, God,” she said. “That’s horrible.”
“It certainly is.” The sound of a phone ringing was heard through an open window. “That might be Wendell. I called him in New York. Excuse me.”
“Anything you want me to do?” she asked.
“Nope, but thanks. Everything is under control. More or less.”
16
The Next Morning
It seemed as though everyone was fighting that Tuesday morning.
Pr
ivate investigator Anthony Buffolino (“with an 0,” he told secretaries) had left the house at five that morning with Alicia’s loving words ringing in his ears: “You’ll never change. You are an irresponsible, uncaring, insensitive moron!”
The words between Tony and his third wife had broken what had been a relatively long period of calm in their marriage. His two previous matrimonial efforts hadn’t enjoyed such lulls. Two days of truce were like the span between world wars I and II.
It was different with Alicia. At least he was different with her than he’d been with his previous wives. Maybe she knew how to handle him better. Maybe not having kids around the house all the time made the difference. Maybe—maybe he’d gotten older and more mellow. That possibility occasionally crossed his mind, but he would quickly dismiss it. It had to be Alicia. Or the absence of kids.
This unanticipated blowup had erupted at dinner the night before when he announced he was moving into a spare apartment in the Tierney complex until his assignment was completed. “He wants me close and on duty twenty-four hours a day,” he’d tried to explain.
Alicia brought up the obvious. They lived a half hour’s drive from Tierney. Tony tried to convince her that it was not his decision. His—their—good-paying client had requested he be on the premises. “What was I supposed to do, Al, blow him off? You’re on my back about making a buck. So, I’m making big bucks with Tierney, and I figure you can lighten up a little, huh?”
“Lighten up? While you can go out and screw around? You’re a married man, Tony.”
And so it went, right up until he left with his bag packed and his temper tenuously in check. His final words to her were, “I’ll call.”
And her final words were, “Don’t bother. I won’t be here.”
Murder on the Potomac Page 9
