Murder at the Kennedy Center

by Margaret Truman

  “And you would prefer someone, Democrat or Republican, who espouses the Manning doctrine.”

  Backus leaned forward and his voice became slightly fatherly. “Ed, we’ve still got us a two-party system, Democrats and Republicans, but that doesn’t mean a hell of a lot anymore. What matters today is political vision, not party labels.”

  Farmer listened silently to the quiet speech he was given by Backus. The southern senator was right, of course. There had been a shift from a two-party system in which Democrats and Republicans competed for elected office, to one in which conservatives and liberals did the vying, Democrats and Republicans sometimes joining forces on the Right, against Democrats and Republicans hooking up together in an equally uneasy alliance on the Left. Philosophy or ideology had supplanted party politics. “The cause,” no matter what it was, had been elevated above allegiance to party which, some claimed, represented a positive step in that it caused the men and women of Congress and the executive to act according to their consciences, rather than along strict party lines. Under the old system, it would have made sense to pair people like Ewald and Backus together to combine the liberal and conservative voters. North and South. Big-city guy and rural American representative. But such coalitions were no longer viable. Ewald and Backus were polar opposites. The fact was—and Farmer knew it—Ken Ewald, despite his seemingly immense popularity, and his victory in a majority of the primaries, did not represent the mainstream of American thought. He was too liberal, too linked to big-budget social programs, perceived as being too soft on crime and national defense. Ewald’s nomination could end up yet another example of the Democrats’ penchant for self-destruction, a candidate who stood for the principles of the party but not the principles of the majority of the American voters. McCarthy. McGovern. Carter. Dukakis. Ewald.

  After they ordered, Backus said, “You’re obviously an ambitious fella, Ed.”

  “Yes, I have ambition.”

  “Seems like everybody in Washington has ambition.”

  “You aren’t critical of that, are you, Senator? I’d say Senator Jody Backus has demonstrated a fair amount of ambition in his career.”

  “A different thing, Ed. A politician’s ambitions are based upon his desire to serve the public. Then there are all those ambitious men and women lookin’ to grab onto his coattails. That’s how some politicians get in trouble, havin’ the wrong young men and women hangin’ on their coattails.”

  Farmer’s thin nostrils flared. “Are you including me in that category, Senator Backus? It seems to me you ought to be more respectful of my ambition.”

  Backus gave him a conciliatory smile. “Don’t take personal offense, Ed. I just call it like I see it. Your level of ambition certainly hasn’t been lost on me.”

  Farmer said nothing.

  “You see, Mr. Farmer, I like ambition in young men, big dreams, feet gettin’ bigger along with the head, climbin’ and stretchin’ and sniffin’ around the ones who can do them the most good. Of course, I’m not talking about loyalty here. Lots a’ times, loyalty and ambition don’t go hand in hand.”

  “I’m not sure I appreciate the tone this conversation is taking,” Farmer said.

  “Now ain’t that too bad.”

  “I happen to be a very loyal person, Senator.”

  “Depends on how you define it, Ed. What do you figure got that nice young woman killed—too much ambition, too much loyalty, or not enough common sense when it came to the people she chose to run with?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Farmer said in a low voice.

  The waiter arrived with their appetizers. Farmer touched his mouth with his napkin, slid out of the booth, and said to the restaurant host, “I just remembered an important appointment.” He turned to Backus and said as pleasantly as possible, “I really hate to leave, Senator. Enjoy your blackened redfish, and thank you for the wine. It was palatable.”

  Mac Smith waited a long time in the study before Ken Ewald came through the door. “Sorry, Mac, but things get crazier every day.”

  When they were seated, Smith asked Ewald a number of questions that had been on his mind. Then he said, “Ken, we are alone in this room. You mentioned to me that the night Andrea Feldman was murdered, you’d left your office to meet with a woman at the Watergate Hotel.”

  Ewald glanced nervously at the door.

  “I’m not in the habit of informing wives about husband’s indiscretions, Ken, but I have to know everything that occurred that night, with everyone.”

  “I don’t see why.”

  “Because you’ve brought me into this situation. You’ve asked me to be Paul’s attorney if he’s charged, and although he hasn’t been yet, there is every possibility that he will be, depending on what MPD manages to come up with. You can’t bring me in and then stonewall me.”

  “Yes, of course, you’re right, Mac, but what contribution could revealing this woman’s identity possibly make to your defense of Paul, if it comes to that?”

  “I don’t know, Ken, but I learned long ago not to censor myself until I had the facts. When I have the facts, I can make a determination whether it contributes or not. I do not intend to be surprised at answers the DA may come up with.”

  Ewald sighed and said, “Okay.” He cast another quick look at the door, lowered his voice, and asked, “What is it you want to know?”

  “Simple. Who was the woman at the Watergate?”

  Ewald frowned. “Mac, I really don’t think …”

  Smith stared at Ewald across the small space separating them. “Who was it?” he asked again.

  “All right. But I’m putting tremendous trust in you.”

  “You have to. Do it with confidence.”

  “I worked in my office until about two in the morning,” Ewald said. “And then …”

  He’d called his home before leaving the office, got Marcia Mims, and said to her, “Tell Mrs. Ewald I’ll be here quite late. A last-minute meeting has come up.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marcia said.

  His unmarked blue Cadillac was at the curb in front of the office building. The driver opened a rear door for the presidential candidate and his bodyguard, Agent Jeroldson. “To the Watergate,” Ewald told the driver. “Go in the garage.”

  The driver made a U-turn, and a few minutes later came to a stop in front of a small service elevator beneath the Watergate. “I’ll be back here soon,” Ewald said as he and Jeroldson got out of the car and pushed a button next to the elevator. They stepped in and rode to the twelfth floor, where Jeroldson fell behind Ewald as they walked down the hushed, carpeted corridor until reaching the door to a suite at the far end. Ewald poised to knock, then looked back at Jeroldson, who momentarily locked eyes with him, then looked away at an elaborate flower arrangement on a table. “Meet me downstairs at four,” Ewald said. “You’re free until then.”

  Jeroldson nodded, which angered Ewald. Every other Secret Service agent who’d been assigned to him was courteous, would have said, “Yes, sir.” Ewald almost said so, but stopped himself. Another time. “You’re relieved,” he said. “Please go.” He watched the square-shouldered, thick-necked agent slowly turn and walk toward a bank of public elevators. He waited until Jeroldson had punched the button before knocking.

  “Ken?” a voice asked from behind the door.

  Ewald looked to where Jeroldson stood. The elevator had arrived, but Jeroldson hadn’t entered it. He was looking at Ewald, motionless, his eyes conveying one final, mute message. He stepped into the elevator.

  An eye confirmed the identity of the visitor through the peephole. The door was unlocked and opened. Ewald stared at the thick, loose black hair flowing over the shoulders of the white silk robe she wore. A large diamond suspended on a gold chain rested on the upper ivory reaches of her stunning breasts. Her fingers, bright crimson nail polish at their tips, were laden with rings. Her bare toes were tipped in the same red. A heavy scent of Joy filled the doorway, the perfume causing an instant and involuntary physica
l reaction in him. Leslie used only an occasional dab of Mitsouko, or L’Air du Temps, preferring the smell of soap. Ewald liked that smell, too … on her. But this—this you could swim into.…

  Roseanna Gateaux stepped back, a smile on her lips. Ewald gave one final glance at the hallway, stepped over the threshold, embraced the voluptuous, warm, and welcoming body of the famous diva, and gently kicked the door shut.

  “Satisfied?” Ewald asked.

  “Nothing to be satisfied about, Ken, but at least the question has been answered.”

  “I assume you know the great faith I have in you to have told you.”

  “Yes, okay.” Smith stood. “I really have to go. We’ll keep in touch.”

  As they stood at the front door, Ewald said, “I just want you to know, Mackensie Smith, how much Leslie and I appreciate what you’re doing for us. I don’t think there is another person in this country we could turn to with such confidence.”

  Smith grunted. “I’m doing it for you and for Paul. I’ll be in touch.”

  17

  Annabel Reed sat in a closet-sized, sparsely furnished office on West Seventy-eighth Street in Manhattan. A small sign on the door read HERBERT GREIST ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. He had no receptionist or secretary. If there had been one, she wouldn’t have had a place to sit.

  Greist was a big but stooped man with flowing gray hair. He wore a rumpled black sharkskin suit; a tailor’s nightmare, Annabel thought. His right shoulder was considerably lower than his left, and his right arm noticeably longer than his left. It gave the overall effect of a man about to fall to one side. His face was sallow and loose. Sunken eyes were surrounded by circles the color of forest mushrooms.

  “Sit down, Ms. Reed, please sit down.” He held out his hand and she took it, glad she was wearing gloves. “You’ll have to forgive this office. I’m in the process of moving to quarters in midtown and am using this temporarily.”

  Sure you are, Annabel thought.

  She sat in a rickety cane chair while Greist went back behind a cheap wooden desk, the veneer chipped off in places, the edges scarred from too many unattended cigars. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked as he drew one from his inside jacket pocket.

  “No, not at all,” she said, knowing that to protest would have been futile. She watched him light up and drop the dead match in a large once-amber ashtray overflowing with ashes.

  “Frankly, Ms. Reed, I would have preferred to speak directly with Mr. Smith,” Greist said, exhaling smoke.

  “That may be,” Annabel said, “but Mr. Smith is terribly busy in Washington. I’m completely familiar with the content of your telephone conversation with him, and have full authority to act on behalf of Mr. Smith, and our clients.”

  “Clients. The Ewald family. It’s a fortunate law firm that has as a client the man who could be the next president of the United States.”

  “We were involved with the Ewald family long before Senator Ewald chose to run for the presidency. Now, Mr. Greist, could we get to the point? You indicate that Mrs. Feldman intends to file a federal suit for the loss of her daughter’s civil rights.”

  Another cloud of blue smoke left his mouth as he leaned back and thought for a moment. “Yes. She is thinking of doing so. And certainly with justification.”

  “We would debate that. Still, you indicated that your client, Mrs. Feldman, was open to the idea of a settlement. Settlement is probably out of the question. But if it were a question, what kind of numbers are you talking about?”

  Greist placed the cigar on the heap already in the ashtray, leaned forward on his elbows so that his chin rested in the palms of his hands, and managed a weak smile. “Directly to the point, I see,” he said, with little energy behind his words.

  “Yes, I don’t see anything to be gained by sitting here stringing out this discussion. How much money does your client feel will adequately compensate her for the loss of her daughter?”

  “That is hard to say, Ms. Reed.”

  Annabel smiled. “I would suggest it become easier soon, or we have nothing to talk about, Mr. Greist.”

  He retrieved his cigar and leaned back again. “Let me see,” he said. “Would a half-million dollars shock you?”

  “I don’t shock easily,” she said. “The fact that it is a ludicrous number probably has more effect on you. You are, of course, joking.”

  “Not at all.” Smoke clouded his face. He coughed and rubbed his eyes.

  She stood and waited until he could again speak. Looking down at him, she said, “Mr. Greist, you have wasted my time and my law firm’s money in arranging this meeting. I would like to speak with your client. Perhaps we could arrange it while I’m in New York.”

  “My client is not in New York.”

  “Then why are you representing her?”

  “I, too, go back a long way with my client’s family. Of course, I don’t have the luxury of representing rich and powerful political figures as you and Mr. Smith do, but I assure you our resolve is no less adamant.” He stood, taller than she’d remembered when he first greeted her. He said, “I suggest that there are other, mitigating circumstances that might cause you and Mr. Smith to reconsider the amount of compensation with which we can be comfortable. There are aspects of Senator Ewald’s life that came to be known to my client, and to her daughter. Those ‘things’ have a certain intrinsic value—once you are aware of the nature of them, I’m sure you will agree.”

  Reed wasn’t sure how to react. “You are suggesting blackmail of Senator Ewald and his family.”

  It was the first wide smile Greist had exhibited, and it revealed teeth that had been tortured or neglected. “Blackmail? That is a terrible word. I prefer to view the sale of information as being simply that, a commercial transaction. My client has information that your client would benefit from, and I am suggesting it has a certain worth.”

  “More than the loss of your client’s civil rights, I assume.”

  “As you wish.”

  “What is this information that Senator Ewald would want to pay a great deal of money to retrieve?”

  “That, Ms. Reed, is for another day, another meeting. You’ll be here a few days?”

  “Yes. I’m staying at the—I’m at a hotel.”

  “Are you free tomorrow evening?”

  “No, I am not, and I must say that I resent the entire tone of this meeting.”

  “Might I suggest, then, that you call Mr. Smith and tell him what has transpired at this distasteful meeting. As counsel to the next president of the United States, he might put a more liberal interpretation on it than you exhibit. I can be reached here tomorrow between one and three in the afternoon. Thank you for coming.”

  She walked back to the Plaza, her mind racing, her anger barely under control. There was a nip in the air; she pulled her gloves from the pocket of her raincoat, and in her annoyance, one of them fell to the pavement. She stopped quickly and turned to pick it up. The man behind her seemed startled at her abrupt halt and change of direction. He looked away, then pretended to peer at items in a store window. Lingerie. Reed picked up her glove, glanced back at him one more time, and walked quickly to the hotel, where she took a shower—which seemed symbolic—ordered a bottle of white wine to be sent to the room, and called Smith at the Watergate. She got the new answering machine. She had the same luck with his home number. Finally, with some hesitation, she dialed the Ewald house. The phone was answered by the head housekeeper. “Yes, ma’am,” Marcia Mims said, “he was here, but he’s left.”

  Annabel gave the housekeeper the same message she’d left on both of Smith’s answering machines, that he was to call her in New York as soon as possible. She gave Marcia Mims her number at the hotel, and hung up as room service arrived.

  Glass in hand, she stood at the window and looked down over the street where people were heading home from their jobs. How routine our lives are so much of the time, she told herself. Then she was forced to smile. She could understand a bit better why Mac Smith had accep
ted the offer to defend Paul Ewald. It broke the sought-after routine of the college professor, just as coming to New York to meet with Greist had broken her routine at the gallery. Maybe she should ease up on Mac a little. Maybe not.

  She sat on the housing that covered the suite’s heating system and shook her head. Herbert Greist trying to blackmail the next president. Tony Buffolino going to San Francisco to find the mother of a slain girl. Politics. Adultery. Blackmail. Murder.

  “Hey, kids,” she said softly to the passersby below, “you don’t know what you’re missing.”

  By the time Mac Smith returned to the suite at the Watergate, all deliveries had been made and the living room had begun to look like a working office. There was a note on the table: “Be back around six—I got something to talk to you about. Tony.”

  Smith called Annabel in New York, and she recounted for him her conversation with Herbert Greist. Smith took notes while she talked. When she was finished, he said, “He told you that there was damaging information about Ken that both Andrea Feldman and her mother had?”

  “Yes, that’s what he said, Mac. I made notes after I got back to the hotel.”

  “No idea what information that might be, or how the Feldman ladies got it?”

  “No. I should have asked more questions, but frankly, I was anxious to get out of there. He’s a communicable disease.”

  Smith considered telling her what he’d learned about Ewald’s liaison with Roseanna Gateaux at the Watergate the night of the murder, but decided not to do it over the telephone.

  “Greist wants to get together with me again tomorrow night,” Annabel said.

  “Are you?”

  “I told him I couldn’t, but I’m thinking now it might be a good idea. He gives me the creeps, but maybe I can find out more.”

  “Do whatever you think is right, Annabel, but be careful. Somebody murdered Andrea Feldman, and I don’t think it was Paul Ewald.”

  “I’ll watch myself,” she said. The man who’d been behind her when she dropped her glove suddenly flashed across her mind. She didn’t mention him. Overactive imagination.