Murder at the Kennedy Center

by Margaret Truman

  He narrowed his eyes as he tried to figure out what she was up to. Did she mean what she’d just said? Or was it the old reverse psychology?

  He decided to take her at face value. “What about your threat to turn into Annie Honey Badger?”

  “Just the animalistic side of Annie. I take it back. No need to buy a metal cup in the morning.”

  “Whew!” He wiped imagined sweat from his brow.

  “Take me home,” she said pleasantly, standing and slipping into her shoes. “It was a great dinner.” She pressed closer to him, whispered in his ear, “I love you, Mackensie Smith.” She kissed him on the mouth, pleasantly, then passionately.

  “Sure you don’t want to stay awhile?”

  “Can’t. You have to think. I want your mind focused on me at certain times. Besides, I have a meeting at eight with a dealer from Rio. Tomorrow night. Stay at my place.”

  “One of these days, we should make it one place,” he said.

  “One of these days. Maybe.”

  In her condo in the Watergate’s apartment complex, Annabel poured herself a glass of orange juice, lit her one cigarette of the day, and went to her small terrace, where she hunched over the railing and looked out across the Potomac. No sense denying it, she told herself: She was still angry at what would obviously be Mac’s decision to become involved with the Andrea Feldman murder.

  But she knew it was more than anger she felt; it was something else, and beyond her comprehension at the moment. The fact that it was without definition made it all the more sinister. Yes, that was it. She wrapped her arms about herself as a distinct, sudden chill caused her to shiver. She was afraid of losing Mackensie Smith, not to another woman, but to something else.

  In that case, the loss would be final.

  She quickly went to bed and invited sleep to blot that dark thought from her consciousness.

  10

  Mac Smith had always been an early riser, although he was capable of sleeping in provided it had been scheduled in advance. Sleeping late had not been planned for this morning, and he awoke precisely at six o’clock to the smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen. To say that Mackensie Smith was obsessive and compulsive about certain ablutions and details was an understatement. No matter what time he returned home at night, he would have trouble falling asleep until he’d prepared the morning coffee and set the timer. Preparing the coffee was a satisfying, relaxing ritual in itself; three scoops of a commercial decaffeinated coffee, two scoops of a water-decaffeinated amaretto blend, and two scoops of amaretto bursting with caffeine. Enough for ten cups; somehow Thursday might turn out to be a long day.

  Rufus, the Dane, his nose a finely tuned instrument to most smells, wasn’t stimulated by the aroma of coffee. He looked up from where he was sleeping on the floor and observed his master climb out of bed, stretch, yawn, and head for the kitchen. The minute Smith was gone, Rufus climbed up onto the bed and resumed sleeping.

  Smith continued his morning ceremonies in the kitchen. He opened windows, turned on WRC, poured his first cup of coffee, then funneled the rest into a carafe so that it would not continue to percolate. WRC’s weatherman was in the midst of forecasting a sunny, pleasant day when Smith turned on the station. A minute later, the weatherman turned things over to the anchor, who said, “To repeat our top stories, Paul Ewald, the son of Democratic presidential hopeful Kenneth Ewald, was arrested just hours ago for the murder of Andrea Feldman, a young attorney who worked on Senator Ewald’s staff. We’ll bring you more details as we receive them.…

  “The White House has once again avowed its support of rebel forces in Panama loyal to ousted dictator Gilbert Morales.…

  “A large shipment of cocaine has been intercepted by DEA agents at Dulles Airport.…”

  Smith called the Ewalds’ home. His call was answered by Marcia Mims, whose voice reflected her distress. “No, Mr. Smith, I haven’t heard from either Senator or Mrs. Ewald. This is so terrible, so terrible for this family. Oh, my God, Mr. Smith, please do something to help!”

  “I’ll do everything I can, Marcia,” Smith said. “I’ll be at my house for an hour. If I don’t hear from someone by then, I’ll call again.”

  His next call was to Paul Ewald’s place. There was no answer, which didn’t surprise him. Janet Ewald was missing, and Paul was in custody. He was hoping—silly game. But you had to try everything, ring every bell, turn over every lead and leaf.

  Call number three was to MPD headquarters. He was told Detective Riga wouldn’t be back until nine.

  “This is Mackensie Smith,” he said, and added, “Paul Ewald’s attorney. Where is he being held?”

  The desk sergeant told him. Smith thanked him and hung up.

  He was about to pick up the phone again when it rang. “Hello?”

  “Mac, this is Rhonda.”

  “I just heard on your station about Paul being arrested,” Smith said. He sounded gruff, although he had no reason to be annoyed with her. Somehow, getting the news from a radio station rankled, and he couldn’t keep it out of his voice.

  “Were you called?” she asked.

  “No. I’m about to get dressed to go see him.”

  “You haven’t had any conversation with him yet?”

  “No. As I said, Rhonda, I heard the news over your station.”

  “Mac, you say you’re going to see him. You are his attorney?”

  “Getting dressed and going to see the son of an old friend does not indicate anything, Rhonda. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Have you talked to Senator Ewald yet?”

  “Rhonda, let’s drop this. If I am to be Paul Ewald’s attorney, that places me under obvious restrictions where you’re concerned.”

  “I understand that, but it doesn’t mean I can’t stay in touch with you, keep tabs on things through you. We are friends, aren’t we?”

  “At parties, yes, but our friendship now has some rules.”

  She laughed. “Sure, it had a few before. But the rules don’t preclude me from calling you, or you from answering the phone. Keep in touch, Mac.”

  “Sure. Do me the same favor.”

  Showered and dressed, and with Rufus hurriedly walked and fed, Smith was almost out the door when he remembered: He had an early class to teach at the university. He called Dean Gerry at home. “Roger, I can’t make my class this morning. I want to call Art Poly to see if he’ll cover it for me.”

  Gerry laughed. “You can cancel it if you want to, Mac.”

  “No, Roger, they miss enough even when they’re there.”

  “All right, call Art, but I have a feeling I’ll be getting more calls like this from you.”

  “I think you’re right,” Smith said.

  “Look, Mac, I heard the news this morning about Paul Ewald being arrested. I also assume that you’re about to handle his defense.”

  Smith’s laugh was rueful.

  “Is it true?”

  “Probably. I mean, yes, it is. We’d better get together to talk about how to handle this.”

  “Anytime, Mac. I’m having a few friends over Saturday evening. Perhaps you and Annabel would join us. We can huddle for whatever time you need.”

  Smith sighed and thought ahead to Saturday. It seemed years away. “I’ll ask Annabel as soon as I talk to her. I don’t know what my schedule is going to be once I’m in deep in this. If I can’t make it Saturday, maybe we can steal some time at the office. I’ll let you know.”

  “Whatever works for you, Mac. Interesting, that you’d get involved in something like this. How well I remember our discussion when you told me you’d decided to close down your practice and join us here in academia.”

  “I remember that discussion, too. Thanks for understanding about this morning. I’ll try to be there Saturday.”

  Smith opened the front door to leave and was confronted with a half-dozen reporters and photographers who’d congregated on the sidewalk in front of his house. A television remote truck was parked across the street
. Smith wasn’t sure what to do. His options were to remain inside, give them a statement, or simply walk past without saying anything. The last option seemed the only sensible course, and that’s what he did, waving off their questions, saying only to the most persistent, “No comment.”

  He decided to leave his car in his garage and to walk until he found a cab. The reporters trailed him, but only one continued to match him stride for stride as he put blocks between him and the house. It was a young man carrying a Marantz portable tape recorder and a microphone with the call letters of a station Smith did not know. The young man eventually stopped asking questions and simply continued walking a few paces behind Smith. They reached an intersection where the light was against them. Smith turned and said as pleasantly as possible, “I don’t have any comment at this time.”

  The young man, whose hair was blushing and whose face sported the predictable accompanying freckles, grinned and said, “All I’m asking, Mr. Smith, is whether you’re Paul Ewald’s attorney. There shouldn’t be any mystery about that.”

  Smith sighed and nodded. “No, there is no mystery about that. Yes, I am representing Paul Ewald in this matter.”

  The light changed. They looked at each other. Smith narrowed his eyes and said, “You can follow me to Chesapeake Bay, but you won’t hear another word.”

  “Okay,” the young red-haired reporter said. “Thanks for answering at least one question.”

  A few blocks later, Smith found a taxi and had the driver take him to MPD headquarters at Third and C Streets, where, after navigating a maze of members of the press and squinting against flashes from strobe lights, he reached Detective Joe Riga’s office. Riga was seated behind his desk, a telephone wedged between ear and shoulder. He was partly obscured by piles of paper and file folders. He saw Smith at the door, waved him in, and resumed his conversation.

  Smith went to a window that desperately needed cleaning and looked down to the street. He heard Riga say, “I don’t give a goddamn what he wants, the report isn’t leaving this office until I get the word from my authorities. Look, I … evidently you don’t speak English.” He slammed the phone down.

  Smith leaned against the windowsill and said, “Good morning, Joe. Still in the State Department? You just flunked diplomacy. You sound angry.”

  Riga picked up a half-smoked cigar and wedged the soggy end between his teeth. “Yeah, I’m angry at all the wahoos who try to pull rank with me, and I have a feeling you’re not here to make me any happier. You’re officially Ewald’s attorney?”

  “Yes.”

  Riga cackled and put the cigar in the ashtray. “Jesus, Mac, I never figured I’d see you back in the saddle as a criminal attorney.” Smith started to say something, but Riga continued. “You know something, you should’ve stayed at the university. Do you know what you’re walking into?”

  “Probably not, but that doesn’t matter at the moment. You’ve arrested Paul Ewald. Is he charged with Andrea Feldman’s murder?”

  “Mac, get your facts straight. We haven’t arrested Paul Ewald. We brought him in for questioning.”

  “In the middle of the night.”

  “Yeah. People tend to be home then.”

  “You didn’t have to detain him to question him, Joe.”

  “In this case, I figured it might be a good idea.” Riga shrugged, grimaced, picked up his cigar again. “His wife cuts out, which makes me a little uneasy, you know? I feel better having him cozied up here.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you feel better with, Joe. You have no right to detain him unless you’re ready to charge and indict him.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, but you know I’ve got a little time.”

  “Damn little. Why wasn’t I called immediately?” Smith asked.

  “We told him he had a quarter to call his attorney, but he didn’t. Maybe he doesn’t want you.”

  “I don’t think that’s the case, Joe. His rights were read to him, I assume.”

  Riga laughed. “Yeah, we read him his rights. We read them a couple of times, because of who he is.”

  “With the video running.”

  “Yeah. We made sure we shot his best side.”

  “Did he make any statements?”

  “Just that he didn’t kill her.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothing important. They all sound the same when you pick them up and question them about a murder. They go through their shocked routine, then get angry at the outrage of it all, and then they clam up. He followed the pattern. You wanna see him?”

  “Of course. Before I do, though, let me ask you a question.”

  “Shoot.” The phone rang and Riga picked it up, scowled at what he heard, and hung up.

  “Joe, doesn’t it strike you as a little strange that the son of a prominent senator and presidential candidate sleeps with a member of his father’s staff, then chooses to shoot her, of all places, in front of the Kennedy Center and with a weapon that belongs to his father?”

  Another shrug from the detective. “Maybe twenty years ago. Nothing surprises me in this looney-tune society.”

  Smith pushed away from the windowsill and took a chair across the desk. “There still has to be some question in your mind about the probability of all this. Paul Ewald isn’t a nut by any stretch of the imagination. He’s well educated, has a successful import-export business, and has never been in trouble in his life.”

  “Come on, Mac, what the hell does that mean? What we’ve got here is a guy who’s been importing and exporting with some chick with a body and brains. He’s cheating on his old lady. The broad threatens to bust up his marriage, which, because he happens to be the son of maybe our next president, could screw up his father, too. He tells her to back off. She won’t back off. He pulls out the gun and figures that’ll get her attention, get her to listen. She doesn’t. Boom! Another crime of passion, just like in the good old-fashioned murder mysteries. Nothing new. The strength of a single pubic hair is stronger than ten thousand mules.”

  Riga laughed at his own joke. “I think Freud said that,” he said.

  Smith realized he was wasting time trying to get Riga to at least acknowledge some doubt about Paul Ewald’s guilt. “Yes,” he said, “Willie Freud from Anacostia.” The phone rang again, and Riga picked it up. Smith stood and pointedly looked at his watch. Riga put his hand over the mouthpiece and said, “All right, I’ll get somebody to take you down.” He pushed a button on his intercom: “Send Ormsby in here.” Riga went back to his telephone conversation. A sergeant entered the office. Again cupping a hand over the mouthpiece, Riga told him, “This is Mackensie Smith, Paul Ewald’s lawyer. Take him down to see his client.”

  Twenty minutes later, Smith sat with Paul Ewald in a room reserved for lawyer-client meetings. It was furnished in pure postmodern police station: a long wooden table and four wooden chairs without arms. At least all four legs on the chairs were the same length. In the interrogation rooms, a half inch of the front legs was sawed off to keep suspects constantly leaning forward. A bright bulb covered by a green metal shade hung above the table. Heavy wire mesh covered the windows, as well as a small window in the door. A uniformed officer could be seen through the window.

  Smith and Ewald shook hands. “Thanks for coming, Mac,” Ewald said.

  “Sorry you’re going through this, Paul. You won’t have to much longer.” They sat at the table, Smith at the head of it, Ewald to his left.

  “Let me say a few things at the outset, Paul. I don’t know what evidence the district attorney thinks he has to make a case against you, but I’ll be informed of that in short order, if he does decide to proceed with charges. I know that you didn’t come home that night after the show at the Kennedy Center. I know that you had access to the weapon that killed Andrea Feldman. And I know that you’d been having an affair with her. If that’s all the DA is going on, he won’t dare seek an indictment. I can assure you of that.”

  Ewald drew a deep breath, sat back, and
looked up at the ceiling. His eyes were closed, and he pressed his lips tightly together. Smith took the moment to observe him. Paul Ewald was a presentable young man. Smith thought of the actors Van Johnson and Martin Milner. Paul had the same boyish quality as his father, although there was a subtle ruggedness to his father’s face that Paul did not possess. In fact, Smith had often thought that there was a softness in Paul Ewald that was almost androgynous, half-effeminate, with a certain vulnerability—call it weakness—that was, at once, appealing yet off-putting. Ewald was wearing socks; his shoes had been removed as a matter of procedure. He had on a white shirt open at the collar and gray trousers. As he opened his eyes and looked at Smith, his fatigue was apparant.

  “Paul, did you kill Andrea Feldman?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You were sleeping with her, and she threatened to break up your marriage and ruin your father’s chances.”

  “No. Andrea was demanding, but not to that extent. I’d come to hate her, though.” Ewald laughed. “Maybe I should have killed her. I’m ending up in the same position whether I did or not.”

  “Not true, Paul. They have to prove you killed her, and if you didn’t, they’ll have a tough time with that.”

  Ewald shook his head. “Pardon me, Mac, if I don’t enthusiastically agree with you. Have you ever had nightmares that you’d be accused of something you didn’t do, but you’d end up paying for it for the rest of your life?”

  “Only after I’ve read novels in which that happened. It won’t happen here.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Smith broke the ensuing silence. “Do you have any idea who might have killed Andrea?”

  “No, I don’t, although women like Andrea Feldman can get people pretty upset.”

  Smith thought of Riga’s comment about mules, but kept it to himself. He rolled his fingers on the tabletop and chewed on his cheek. “Paul, had you been with her to the Buccaneer Motel, the place she had a key to?”