“What the …?” Buffolino bolted from the chair and headed for the door. It opened before his hand could reach the knob. Standing in the hall were four men, their guns drawn.
“Cool out, Tony,” one of them said. Officers from Internal Affairs. “Nothing stupid.”
Buffolino turned and looked at Garcia, who was leaning casually on the television, a smug grin on his face.
“Cuff him,” a cop said as another removed Tony’s service revolver from where it sat beneath his jacket.
There were so many things Buffolino wanted to tell them instantly, how he never took from anybody before, how his youngest child was sick with cancer and needed expensive medical treatment beyond what his benefits as a cop would cover, how backwards it was to use a notorious drug kingpin like Garcia to trap a cop who’d always been honest, to make a deal with that scum. He said nothing, and was led to a waiting car downstairs.
Tony Buffolino opened his eyes and blinked. That scene had played in his mind thousands of times since it happened. Early—during the hearings, and shortly after his dismissal from the force—he wished he’d run from the suite to the balcony and gone over. Then, as the banal realities of every day prevailed, that thought dimmed. Not the scene itself, not the disgrace, the second divorce, being shunned by friends in MPD, the hatred he felt for those who’d set him up, wired Garcia, caused him to lose what had always meant most to him. That Mackensie Smith had successfully prevented a criminal action being brought against him meant nothing. Anthony Buffolino died that night in suite 1117.
But as he went inside from the balcony and again surveyed the living room, he felt an unmistakable twinge of life. He’d felt it the morning he’d met Smith for breakfast, a sense of having something important to do that day, a meeting, a case, a reason for shining shoes that went unpolished month after month. Something positive to report to Barbara and Julie. Although they were no longer his wives, they meant a great deal to him. Money. Clean money. A sense he was doing something worthwhile for Billy without the accompanying sense of constant deprivation.
“Damn,” he said aloud, smacking a fist into a hand. He rode the elevator down and walked into the elegant Jean Louis restaurant.
“We’re open at lunch only to club members and hotel guests. Are you a guest of the hotel, sir?”
“I certainly am. Suite 1117.”
“Will you be dining alone?”
“Today, yes. I’ll have guests other days. I’ll be here a while.”
“Good, sir. This way, please.”
After a quick study of the menu, he said to the waiter, “I’ll start with this terrine of fresh and smoked salmon with caviar. Let’s see, how about some Maryland crab cakes for a second course, this here—how do you pronounce it?—mousseline of lobster filled with lobster sauce for the third, and the venison stuffed with mushrooms. No, no dessert. I got to stay in shape.”
To the wine steward, he said, “Latour? Whatever you say. I’m in suite 1117. I’ll be here a while. Remember me, okay?” He handed him a twenty-dollar bill.
14
As Buffolino finished up his several lunches that day at Jean Louis, Leslie Ewald was finishing up a speech to the Democratic Woman’s Association at their luncheon in the Mayflower Hotel’s main ballroom.
“I suppose the best way to describe Ken’s vision of America is to say that he believes with all his heart that every American must have the right to be treated as he wishes to be treated, and would want his own children to be treated. This is not the case in today’s America. My husband, when he is president, will work hard to bring this about, and to return us to a nation with a keen sense of justice, equality, and fairness for every man, woman, and child.”
Two hundred women stood and applauded. Once the applause had subsided, the press representatives, who sat in a cordoned-off area in the front of the room, tossed a barrage of questions at Leslie. She held up her hands and smiled. “Please, I do have another commitment I must get to, but I will be happy to take a few questions. Before I do, let me say that Ken and I are naturally delighted that our son has been released, and we stand firm in our love and support of him. We feel totally vindicated, as I know he does, but please, it would be inappropriate for us to discuss any aspect of that.”
She recognized a reporter, who asked, “Mrs. Ewald, a poll released earlier this morning indicates that your husband’s standing has slipped. Do you think this unfortunate affair, even if it’s resolved to your satisfaction, has seriously damaged his chances for the Democratic nomination in July?”
Leslie shook her head and said with strength, “Absolutely not. The American people … every family in this wonderful country … has had to face problems, and they understand the problems we’re facing as a family. It is distinct and apart from the leadership qualities that Ken will bring to the White House, and I am confident that the American people will sympathize with our pain, and will focus on the issues that are really important to them.”
Another questioner asked, “Not only is your son a prime suspect in Andrea Feldman’s murder, Mrs. Ewald, but his wife … your daughter-in-law … has been missing for a few days now. Would you comment on that?”
“No, I won’t. Janet, whom we love very much, has undoubtedly gone off to find some solitude, which, I must add, sounds like a very good idea.” Some of the audience laughed quietly, and Leslie joined them. “All of this will be resolved shortly. In the meantime, we’re pressing ahead and know that we will be successful in July at the convention.”
Other questions came from the press section, but one of Leslie’s press aides quickly came to the microphone, waved his hand, and said, “Sorry, Mrs. Ewald has another appointment. Thank you very much.”
A loud voice from a reporter asked, “What will your priority as First Lady be?”
Leslie, who’d started to leave the podium, leaned back to the microphone and said, “Day care. The right of every mother to know that her children are in a safe and enriching environment when it’s necessary for her to work outside the home … or simply because she wants to work.”
Leslie’s aides and Secret Service agents led her from the podium and out of the ballroom. Outside, in the lobby, another small knot of reporters waited. As Leslie passed them, a young woman in jeans with long, matted blond hair pushed close to her, shoved a microphone in her face, and asked, “Will you be the first First Lady to be divorced while in the White House?”
Leslie stopped and looked at the reporter as though she’d spoken a foreign tongue.
The reporter added, “Everyone knows that you and Senator Ewald have been estranged for years.”
The aides tried to move her on, but Leslie stood firm. She looked the reporter in the eye and said, “First of all, I find you personally offensive. Second, I respect your right as a journalist to ask anything you wish. Third, my private life is exactly that, private. And fourth, you are talking to a happily married woman, whose husband is a fine and decent man and who will be the next president of the United States, your country. Knowing my husband, I know he will defend to the death your right to be offensive and boring. Have I answered your question?”
The reporter’s expression was defiant, but her voice was weak. “Yes,” she said, backing into the crowd.
After the Ewald entourage had left the hotel, a veteran campaign reporter from the Washington Post joined a colleague for a drink in the Mayflower’s refurbished Town-and-Country bar. “She talks like Ewald does,” he said as the bartender served him a shot of rye and a glass of seltzer. “They don’t even try to change the quotes. Jack Kennedy gave that speech about America treating everybody and their kids the way they want to be treated during the civil-rights movement. Almost word for word. Doesn’t anyone remember Joe Biden’s campaign?”
His friend, who’d ordered a beer, laughed. “Hey, it could be worse. They could be quoting James Watt or Jimmy the Greek.”
“True.” He downed the rye and waved for another. “I just wish there were some goddamn ba
sic honesty. The kid who asked about their relationship was on the money. ‘Happily married woman,’ my ass.”
Mac Smith watched Leslie’s confrontation with the young reporter on a newscast an hour later. He was in a TV room in the Ewald house in Georgetown. “Nice work,” he said to Leslie on the TV screen as she told off the reporter. He did admire the way they’d forged ahead despite the brewing scandal about Paul. They conducted themselves with dignity, and without apology. He liked that. At the same time, he knew that their statements that what had happened to them personally would have little effect on Ken’s bid for the White House were at best naive, or, more likely, planned bravado. The campaign had to have suffered, and he wondered what kind of strategy was being planned at the moment.
The door to the TV room opened, and Marcia Mims asked Smith if he would like something to eat or drink.
“No, thank you, Marcia.”
She lingered in the doorway, as though she wanted to say something else but wasn’t sure she should. Before Smith could encourage her to speak, she backed out and closed the door.
Marcia Mims had been with the Ewald family for twenty-two years. She’d come to Los Angeles from Martinique as a young woman, after a charlatan beauty-contest promoter there convinced the beautiful and shy Marcia—as well as her mother—that he had arranged a screen test at a major Hollywood studio for the newly crowned “Miss Fort-de-France.” Marcia’s mother forked over every cent they had in savings, and Marcia headed for Hollywood, the family’s future riding on her certain rise to screen stardom. Of course, there was no screen test, nor was there money to return to Martinique. Prostitution? Domestic work? Marriage? She had tried them all, and after two divorces, instead of becoming a star and rich, settled for running a household of a possible political star who was rich—an aspiring California politician named Kenneth Ewald.
Aspirations then turned to reality for Ewald, and Marcia Mims was promoted to the Ewald Washington house in Georgetown when he became a United States senator. “La-dee-da,” her friends said when she announced she was leaving for the nation’s capital. “Just don’t let massa get his hands on your butt. He looks like he likes ’em all shades,” they joked. A lot of giggling. And envy. In fact, Marcia had hit it off pretty well from the start with the Ewalds. They liked her and showed it in many generous ways, gradually promoting her. She was reluctant to express too much appreciation lest she seem to be playing the house-slave role, but she knew that considering who she was and where she’d come from, there were worse things than being surrogate mother, wife, and chairman-of-the-board in a wealthy and exciting household, with gardeners, two chauffeurs, kitchen workers, and serving staff under her managerial thumb. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Leslie Ewald often said—said too often—and Marcia never failed to return the compliment, probably with as much sincerity as she perceived the lady of the house possessed.
Now, it seemed possible that she would be promoted again, this time to the White House, and the thought of it frightened her. She had begun to read books on what the White House was like, and wondered what extra demands would be placed on her, what additional duties she would be called on to perform once she was there. The White House! Serving the president of the United States! Someday, she would write a book and be famous. What stories she’d have to tell! Her diary was already a treasure.
Ed Farmer, Ken’s campaign manager, poked his head in. “Sorry, Mac, didn’t realize you were here,” he said.
“No problem, Ed. I was just watching Leslie on television. She handled herself beautifully.”
Farmer, whose expression was consistently dour, raised his eyebrows and leaned against the door frame. He fiddled with his bow tie as he said, “Between you and me, Mac, they’re performing a lot better than the situation really is. We’re in trouble. Some of the faithful are losing faith, even whispering defection.”
Smith nodded. “I suppose we couldn’t expect anything else, considering the serious nature of what’s happened. What’s the term—‘damage control’?—how is that coming?”
The question brought forth a rare smile from Farmer.
“The water has started pouring in, and we’re trying to bucket it out as fast as possible. Sorry, I have to run.” And he was gone.
Smith spent the next few minutes consulting notes he’d made on a legal pad, and added more. There was a knock on the door. “Come in.” Marcia Mims reappeared. “Mr. Smith, you have a telephone call.”
“Who is it?”
“The gentleman says his name is Mr. Greist, Herbert Greist, and he’s calling from New York.”
Smith glanced around the TV room in search of a phone. Marcia said, “Why not take it in the second-floor office?”
Smith went to the office on the second floor, which was fully equipped with fax and copying machines, an IBM computer and printer, two multiline phones, dictating equipment, and a broadcast-quality cassette tape recorder on a shelf high above the desk. He picked up the lighted extension and said, “This is Mackensie Smith.”
Greist, whoever he was, seemed surprised to hear a voice on the other end of the phone. He coughed, excused himself for a moment, and Smith could hear papers being shuffled in the background. “Ah, thank you, Mr. Smith. I had to find Mrs. Feldman’s file.”
“Mrs. Feldman? What is this about?”
“I’ve been retained by Mae Feldman, regarding the murder of her daughter, Andrea.” He had the tired voice of a person whose successes were few and far between, or never.
There had been some mentions in the press coverage of Andrea Feldman’s murder that attempts to reach her only known family member, her mother, had been unsuccessful. Frankly, Smith hadn’t given much thought to that. Damn. Dumb. Now, he would. “Go on,” he said.
“We intend to file suit over the loss of Andrea Feldman’s civil rights, and to ask for substantial damages from your client for my client’s pain and suffering in losing her only daughter.”
Smith said nothing. Greist asked if he were still on the line.
“Yes.”
“And so, Mr. Smith, I think it would be in the best interest of both parties for you and me to meet to see whether there is some accommodation we could reach that would avoid further embarrassment and pain to Senator Ewald and his family.”
The words “cheap hustler” ran through Smith’s mind. What would it cost to not further embarrass a man running for president? Lots. Smith’s inclination was to politely tell Mr. Greist to get lost. But he was no longer a free man. He couldn’t. Andrea Feldman’s mother certainly had the right to sue over her daughter’s death. No matter what might happen in any criminal proceeding, there was lately the chance to sue for the loss of an individual’s “civil rights,” i.e., life. If Greist were any good—which Smith doubted—they might mount a compelling case. But Greist obviously wasn’t interested in filing cases or going to court. His message was clear. Come up with enough money and they’d go away.
“When will you be in Washington, Mr. Greist?”
“My, ah, plans will keep me here in New York for some time, Mr. Smith. Perhaps you could come here for a conference.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“I would suggest that you not wait too long. Mrs. Feldman is … well, she’s most anxious to put this behind her, as you can well imagine.”
Translation: Get money now.
“I’ll be in touch, Mr. Greist. By the way, it was my understanding that Mrs. Feldman hadn’t been located.”
“She travels.”
“She lives in San Francisco?” Smith asked.
He cleared his throat. “Well, yes, but New York is a second home for her.”
“Because of her profession? Which is?”
“We can discuss that when we meet. I repeat, Mr. Smith, time is of the essence.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is, Mr. Greist. By the way, I assume you’re the attorney handling the disposition of whatever estate Andrea Feldman left.”
“That is correct.”
/>
“She had a will?”
“Well, she … her affairs are in good order, Mr. Smith.”
“I’m sure they are. You’ll hear from me … or from someone on my staff. Good-bye.”
Smith hung up and left the room, never noticing that the tape recorder on the shelf above him had begun recording the moment he lifted the receiver.
Downstairs, Smith checked his watch; he wanted to run home before going to the gathering at Roger Gerry’s house. He’d asked Annabel to go with him, but she was busy, which was okay with him. He didn’t intend to stay long, wasn’t in the mood for polite parties.
He strolled to the rear of the house and found Marcia Mims in the kitchen. “I’m leaving now, Marcia. Thank you for everything.”
She looked up from salmon filets she was garnishing for dinner that night and said, “Anytime, Mr. Smith.”
“How are you holding up under all of this, Marcia?”
She looked down at the glistening pink flesh beneath her hands and slowly shook her head. “I don’t know, Mr. Smith, how all this will end up, but I know this household is full of mess. There’s serious trouble here.”
Initially, Smith thought she was referring to the trouble caused by Paul’s arrest, complicated by Janet’s disappearance. But then he realized she was referring to something beyond that. He asked what she meant.
“It just makes me so sad to see this mess—and a wonderful family destroyed.”
“Because of what happened with Paul?”
“Yes, and …”
“And what, Marcia?”
“And lots of other things that most folks just don’t know about.” She didn’t give Smith a chance to press the question. “Excuse me, Mr. Smith, I have a lot of work to do.”
Smith stared at her until she looked at him again. “I’ll be back, Marcia. Maybe we could find some quiet time to talk.”
She went back to working the fish.
Smith sat with his dean, Roger Gerry, in a comfortable study in Gerry’s home. The sound of the guests mingling in the other rooms was agreeably muffled.
Murder at the Kennedy Center Page 12
