Murder at the Kennedy Center

by Margaret Truman

  “They sure traced it fast.”

  “Not hard. It was registered. At least they can’t arrest him for possessing an unregistered handgun. Maybe that’s part of his anti-National Rifle Association shtick—own a gun, if it’s registered.”

  “Small victory.”

  “Any of what I’ve said so far true?” she asked.

  “Bits and pieces. Are you going with the story?”

  She nodded. “We’re trying to put together something for tomorrow morning. Care to comment?” She reached into an oversized purse and pulled out a tiny tape recorder.

  “Nope.”

  “Denial?”

  “Nope.”

  “You know what, Mac?”

  “What?”

  “The shocker to me is that you’d get involved.”

  He knew that if he did get involved, Annabel would have the same reaction.

  “Mac.”

  “What?”

  “You suggested we meet for lunch, not me. What are you after from me?”

  He grinned. “I was going to see what you knew about the Andrea Feldman murder. I didn’t have to probe much, did I?”

  “Not with me. I’m a fan, always have been since you treated this new kid in town with respect during the Buffolino case. Ever hear from him?”

  “No. Last I knew, he was living in Baltimore.”

  “Mac.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t have to probe me for what I know about Feldman. Do me the same favor.”

  “You’ve got it all. I can’t add anything.”

  “Have you met with the Ewalds?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are they concerned that one of them might be charged with Andrea Feldman’s murder?”

  Smith hated to lie to her, but he had to. “No, nothing like that was discussed.”

  “What about the weapon? Did Ewald indicate it was missing?”

  “Rhonda, I really can’t talk any more about this.”

  “Will you give me first crack at an interview? If a charge is brought?”

  “Of course not. If I were to become involved, and if what you think is true, I’d be one hell of a lousy defense attorney talking to the press about the case, even to such an outstanding and beautiful member of it. And since I am not officially involved, I certainly don’t have any news value.”

  “Can’t blame a reporter for asking.”

  “Blame? You’re good. I will promise you that if there’s anything I can do for you, I will. Come on, let’s finish off the onion rings—why do they remind me today of handcuffs?—and order a couple of salads.” He squinted at his watch. “I have a meeting to get to.”

  “A meeting about the Feldman case?” she asked after they’d returned to their seats at the bar.

  “No, a meeting about faculty appointments, tenure, and such—deadly, deadly dull.”

  Harrison picked up a small clump of the crusty onions in her long, slender, brightly tipped fingers and held them to her lips. Her expression as she looked at Smith was half-amused, half-skeptical. “Do you know what my gut instincts tell me, Mackensie Smith?”

  “I would be delighted to know.”

  “My instincts tell me that we are about to have a bombshell dropped on this city and on Ewald’s campaign. And they also tell me that I am sharing onion rings with one of the major players.”

  Smith winked at her. “All I can tell you, Rhonda, is that you are sharing onion rings with a man who gave up the active practice of law a while back and is blissfully happy in his life as college professor.”

  “Bull!”

  “Even if I were tempted to become involved in a case again, I would have to do it under the threat of dismemberment by my significant other, Annabel Reed. You’ve never met Annie, have you? I really should introduce you two someday. You’d get along.”

  “Not if she knew I was mad about you.”

  They had their salads at the bar. As Smith laid bills next to his empty plate, he said to Rhonda, “This was a more productive lunch than I anticipated. Knowing you’re ‘mad about’ me has made my day. And now that I do know it, I think I’ll keep you and Annabel far away from each other. She’s … bigger than both of us. Thanks for joining me, Rhonda. Looks like I’d better tune in WRC in the morning.”

  Smith had no sooner sat down at the conference table with his faculty colleagues when the Feldman murder was brought up. “What’s new with that, Mac?” one of them asked.

  “How would I know?”

  “Come on, Mac, you found the body, and you’re an insider with the Ewald family. They’re saying on radio and TV that you’ve been retained in the event anyone from the family is charged. You’re a major—”

  “Player, yes, so I hear. Okay, I found the body, much to my dismay. To be more accurate, my dog found the body. I have not been retained by anyone. I am very much an outsider and intend to keep it that way, if I can manage it.”

  “Did you spend time with the deceased at the gala?” another asked.

  “Yes. A little.” Smith checked his watch. “Good music, a hell of a show. Could we get on with this? I have other appointments.”

  After Smith left the meeting, one of the professors said, “Sometimes I find it difficult to deal with his arrogance.”

  The law school dean, Roger Gerry, replied, “The right to be arrogant is earned. Mac Smith has earned that right. But it’s confidence and competence you see, not arrogance. He carries it all rather nicely, I think.” Gerry adjourned the meeting, a tiny, satisfied smile on his face.

  8

  “Mac, Joe Riga.”

  “Hello, Joe, thanks for getting back to me. How’s it going?”

  “Too damn busy. Here I am with a year to retirement, and you and that beast of yours have to find a body in front of the Kennedy Center. What can I do for you?”

  “I was just wondering whether you’d come up with any leads. I heard on the radio—”

  “You should know after years of being a defense attorney that anything said on the radio about a murder isn’t true.”

  “Not necessarily. I heard on the radio that you found the weapon.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where?”

  “A couple hundred feet from the body, in the bushes. It’s registered to your friend Senator Ewald.”

  “Yes, I heard that, too.… Prints?”

  “Clean.”

  “I understand you’re holding a press conference tomorrow morning. I hate to wait that long like ordinary citizens to get all the sordid details.”

  “What makes you out of the ordinary in this matter, Mac? Is it true that if anybody from your buddy’s house is charged, Mackensie Smith is back in action as the crusading defense attorney?”

  There was no sense in making flat denials any longer, so Smith said, “Could be. I don’t know yet. What are you announcing tomorrow at the press conference?”

  “There is no press conference. We canceled.”

  “Why?”

  “A mistake. We thought we had it nailed down, but something didn’t pan out. We’re working on it. What did you know about the deceased?”

  “Very little, just that she was smart, hardworking, good-looking—and very bright, in fact. Funny, but I was thinking this morning that I never heard much about Andrea’s life, her background, family, that sort of thing. Then again, I really didn’t work with her until we helped put together the gala. She was assigned from Ewald’s staff to help coordinate things.”

  “She have any boyfriends?”

  “I’m sure she did.”

  “You were there at Kennedy Center. You talk to her, see her hanging around with anybody?”

  “Nothing in particular. Saw her talking, dancing. She danced a lot. She was a good dancer. Caught everybody’s attention.”

  “Not just for her footwork. Who’d she dance with?”

  “A couple of young, nice-looking men. They all looked clean and wore conservative suits.”

  “And maybe one
of them got his hands dirty.”

  “Maybe. Look, Joe, are you working on the assumption that somebody in the Ewald camp killed her?”

  “Mac, I’m working on the assumptions, number one, that somebody killed her, and number two, that the gun used traces to the Ewald house. I’m going out to their house in about an hour.”

  “Really? I’m due out there myself. Mind if I join you?”

  Riga laughed, and Smith could see his face, those large, yellowing teeth with the gap in the front. “Sure, why not. I have to get a formal statement from you anyway, something I neglected to do last night. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Fine.”

  “Hey, Mac, I keep meaning to ask you every time I talk to you whether you ever hear from Tony.”

  “Buffolino? No.”

  “Last I heard, he was working private in Baltimore.”

  “Yes, I heard that, too. Funny, somebody else asked about him recently, too. Good man, Tony.”

  “Matter of opinion. Maybe we can catch a drink after we leave Ewald. My treat.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll have time, Joe—I’m meeting Annabel for dinner—but let’s play it by ear. You’re buying? I like that, and if we don’t get to do it tonight, I’ll remind you of it on a regular basis.”

  Smith hung up, stretched out on a couch in his living room, and for the moment thought of Anthony Buffolino, one of his last clients as a practicing criminal attorney.

  Tony Buffolino had been a Washington MPD detective, a good one, everybody said. He’d had a clean record for fifteen years, a drawerful of citations of merit, letters from appreciative citizens and local politicians, no hint of being on the take, a good cop. Then, after taking three slugs in his right leg—two in the thigh and one in the knee—in a shootout during a bank robbery, he was told he was being retired on full pay. That wasn’t what he had in mind. He fought being pensioned off despite constant jibes from fellow officers who dreamed of such a situation for themselves, and despite the pleas of his second wife, who hated seeing her husband leave home each morning and never knowing whether he’d return. He went through extensive physical rehabilitation, passed the physical, and continued on the force as a detective assigned to a special unit formed to combat Washington’s growing drug trade. That was when all the trouble started, personal and professional.

  Smith got up after ten minutes on the couch, shaved, and drove to the Ewald house. He wanted to get there before Riga.

  He had trouble reaching the front gate because of the number of vehicles parked outside the house. There were mobile vans from local television stations, automobiles belonging to a variety of reporters, and two MPD squad cars, their uniformed occupants seated glumly inside them. He was passed through the gate by a private security guard. As he drove up in front of the house, he noticed that the video surveillance camera was in place up on the portico.

  Marcia Mims, the Ewalds’ head housekeeper, escorted him to the study. “I’m early, Marcia,” Smith said. “Any problem?”

  “They’re upstairs, Mr. Smith. We’ve nothin’ but problems. But not you. I’ll tell them you’re here.”

  A few minutes later, Leslie Ewald came to the study. Her eyes were puffy; she’d been crying.

  “I came early, Leslie, because Detective Riga told me he had an appointment with you and Ken this afternoon.”

  Her response was to press her lips together, cross the room to a desk, and lean heavily on it with both hands. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she said in a low voice.

  Smith came up behind her. “It’s a dreadful thing, Leslie, this suspicion, but it’s not yet an accusation, and you and Ken will see it through.”

  She turned and looked into his eyes. “Mac, things are moving so fast.”

  They sat in facing chairs. “Obviously, Leslie, the police have to talk to everyone who could possibly have knowledge about what happened to Andrea. Even if the weapon weren’t involved, the fact that she was on Ken’s staff would be sufficient reason to have detectives talk to him. Have you spoken with Paul?”

  “Of course. He’s upstairs with Ken. They’ve been arguing all afternoon.”

  “About what, or is that none of my business?”

  “To me, it’s very much your business, Mac, and I’m personally deeply grateful that you’re here. Janet has disappeared.”

  “When did you find that out?” Smith asked.

  “This morning. Paul said she packed a bag and left.”

  “I see,” Smith said. “Any idea where she might have gone?”

  “None whatsoever. Janet is … well, to be kind, Janet is not the most rational of women, especially when the pressure is on.”

  “You mean …?”

  “Yes, I mean Paul’s affair with Andrea, and the fact that he never came home last night. Lord knows where Janet would go, or what she would do.”

  Smith pondered it, then said, “The police will want to talk to her eventually.”

  “I know that. I suppose we’ll have to tell them. When Detective Riga called to arrange to see us, he asked that the four of us be present.”

  Smith forced a smile and slapped his hands on his knees. “Detective Riga could arrive at any moment, Leslie. I would like to talk to the three of you before he gets here. Could you have Ken and Paul come down?”

  “Yes, of course.” She called Marcia Mims and asked her to get them. “Not only is this an awful tragedy for that poor girl, and for us as a family, it could be a tragedy for the campaign. Ken had to cancel an appearance this afternoon. He’s flying to Philadelphia tonight.”

  “Are you going with him?”

  “Yes. You can imagine the questions the press will have for us at every step.”

  “Let’s not worry about the press now, Leslie. I’m more concerned that everyone here is in sync.”

  Ken and Paul Ewald came in, and Smith launched into a series of questions that he anticipated would be asked by Riga. He realized he was back in his old role as a defense attorney, preparing witnesses, trying to head off surprises: “Where did you keep the weapon that was used to kill Andrea Feldman?” “Who had access to it?” “When did you last see it?” “Where was it?” “Why wasn’t it secured?” “Where were each of you at the time she was killed?” “Can anyone verify your actions during that period of time?” “How well did you know the deceased?” “Was your relationship with her cordial, or had there been a recent strain?”

  The list went on. When he was done, he realized some of the answers did nothing to divert suspicion, not just from Ken or Paul but from any of them. No one had an alibi, but Paul had the biggest problem. He claimed he’d had a fight with his wife and had taken a drive into Maryland for quiet time to think. Yes, he’d had an affair with Andrea Feldman, and, yes, Janet knew about it and had reacted vehemently and emotionally. No, he had no idea where she was. A suitcase was gone from her closet; her car was gone, too. He was very concerned about her, he said.

  “Has she often just disappeared like this, Paul?” Smith asked.

  “I wouldn’t say often, Mac, but it has happened before. Frankly, I’m worried about what she might do to herself.”

  “Is she suicidal?”

  “There have been threats, although I think they were just that, attention-getting outbursts. Still, I may as well level with you. Janet has some psychological problems.” He looked at his father, who said nothing. “She’s been under treatment for quite a while with Dr. Collins.”

  “Geoffrey Collins?” Smith said. “I know Geof.”

  Paul stood and walked the length of the room, came back halfway, and said, “Look, I’m so sorry about all of this. I know there’s absolutely nothing I can say to either of you to explain it away, or to make it better. I … I had an affair, and she’s dead now. I know you don’t need this kind of complication running for president, Dad, and I would give anything, including my life, if I could go back and make this not happen.”

  Smith looked at Ken Ewald. Although the senator gave his son a re
assuring smile, he obviously did so with some effort.

  When Smith asked the senator what he had done following the gala, his answer was terse: “I went to my office across the street and worked until early in the morning. The gala took too much time out of my campaign schedule.”

  “And you say this Secret Service agent, Jeroldson, was with you the whole time.”

  “Yes. I mean, I wasn’t sitting with him. I was in my office with the door closed, and he was out in the waiting room, the way it always is.”

  “Riga will want to confirm that with Jeroldson,” Smith said.

  “Good. Let him. This whole thing is ridiculous. Obviously, no one in this family, or in this household, killed Andrea Feldman. Someone must have broken in, or entered the house under false pretenses and walked out with the pistol.”

  Smith sighed and recrossed his legs. “Ken, that is always a possibility, but it is, I’m sure you’ll admit, a farfetched one. The fact is that Riga’s spotlight may sooner or later shine directly on Paul here. As a family friend and unofficial legal adviser who’s had some experience in criminal law, I can tell you the evidence is all circumstantial, but still Paul’s defense, if he has to make one, is pretty shaky. He had access to the weapon, was sleeping with the deceased, had a wife who was furious about it, and can’t account for his—or her—whereabouts.”

  “Then let them charge me,” said Paul, stalking to the door. “I can’t do anything about that.”

  “Don’t leave,” Smith said, pointing his finger at him. “Riga expects the three of you to be here. It’s bad enough that Janet won’t be present. That’s going to take some explaining in itself.”

  “I’ll be upstairs,” Paul said. He closed the door with considerable force.

  Joe Riga was accompanied by two younger detectives. Riga was a tall man with a paunch, who wore his black hair slicked back. He handed his raincoat to Marcia Mims and accepted Leslie Ewald’s offer to make himself comfortable. His assistants, still wearing their coats, took chairs outside the circle that had been formed by Riga, the Ewalds, and Smith.

  “Sorry to take your time, Senator,” Riga said. “I guess running for president must have you on the go.”

  “Yes,” Ewald replied dryly.