A few minutes later, he stood in the middle of her modest living room, a glass of warm whiskey in his hand. The walls were filled with photographs, all of them featuring Carla Zaretski. A badly scratched recording of Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro came from small, cheap speakers.
“Memories,” Carla said from where she’d arranged herself on a chaise longue that bore the scratch marks of four cats that roamed the room.
“You were a star, huh?” Buffolino said.
“No, never a star, but I sat on the threshold of stardom. The voice is such a fickle slave. I lost my portamento prematurely.”
Buffolino stared at her. “Jesus, I’m sorry to hear that. What’d you have, an accident?”
“Accident?” She started to laugh. “You are absolutely charming. Portamento, you know, is when the singer is no longer able to smoothly transverse the octaves.”
Buffolino joined her laughter. “Yeah, right, that portamento.” He quickly turned his attention to the photographs on the wall. “Who’s this with you?”
“My dear friend and one of the world’s great divas, Roseanna Gateaux. Surely you recognize her.”
Buffolino had certainly heard of Gateaux, and remembered Mac Smith mentioning her as part of his blow-by-blow description of the events at the Kennedy Center the night Andrea Feldman was murdered. “Sure,” he said, “but that picture must have been taken years ago.”
“She is here now, singing Leonora in Il Trovatore. How sad Mae can’t be present.”
“Yeah, I know. Let’s talk about that. Talking eases the pain sometimes.”
An hour later, Buffolino decided it was time to leave. His hostess had lapsed into a nonstop recounting of her failed operatic career, which, the more she talked, Buffolino realized had never amounted to much except unrealistic dreams and empty, childish artistic pretensions. Still, he knew that Miss or Mrs. Zaretski represented the sort of direct link to Mae Feldman that he needed. Mac Smith had told him to find out everything he could about Andrea Feldman’s mother. This was paydirt.
He told her he had to leave, but added, “I’ll be staying in town a few days. How would you like to have dinner with me?”
“Dinner? On such short notice?” She fluffed her hair. “You mean tonight?”
“Let’s make it tomorrow night,” Buffolino said lightly. “Hey, you were some knockout. I can see from the pictures. You haven’t lost much as far as I’m concerned.”
She giggled like a schoolgirl.
“Come on, I don’t know anything about San Francisco. Dinner’s on me, and you show me the sights. Whattaya say?”
When she didn’t immediately accept, he asked, “Are you going to see your friend Roseanna while she’s here?” He knew the answer; Roseanna Gateaux was not her friend, and she probably didn’t have enough money to buy a ticket. “I’d sure like to hear her sing,” Buffolino said. “Traviata. That’s one of my favorites. What do you say we go together?”
“Trovatore,” she said, but there was no hesitation now. They made a date for dinner the next night. She suggested he buy tickets to the opera, but he reached into his pocket and tossed a hundred dollars on the table. “You do it, pick some good seats. Is that enough?” She frowned. He tossed down another hundred. “Get the best.”
“I will.”
“Great, I’ll be staying at a hotel called the Mandarin Oriental, down in the financial district. Maybe you could call me there tomorrow and we’ll set it up.”
She walked him to the door. “You are a very sensitive and kind man,” she said.
“Well, I … hey, I’ll level with you, I just happen to have taken a shine to you, you know? And opera, a chance to see Roseanna Gateaux. My lucky day.”
21
The lunch at the Four Seasons was pleasant, but turned out to be mission impossible. Annabel spent the lunch negotiating with a collector of pre-Colombian art for a sculpture of were-jaguar. The collector was a prissy little man who wouldn’t budge on the price, which, Annabel knew, was far in excess of the piece’s worth. They parted and agreed to keep in touch, although she decided the only way that would happen was if he called to announce he’d cut his price in half.
She had time to kill; the appointment she’d made with Herbert Greist wasn’t until six. It was a lovely day in New York, sunny and mild but with enough nip in the air to remind you that summer wasn’t here yet.
She decided to take a leisurely walk, and chose upper Fifth Avenue. Although she’d dismissed the notion that she’d been followed yesterday, the thought had come back to her a few times that morning, causing her to look behind in search of the same man. He was never there, and by the time she’d reached the Four Seasons, she’d put him out of her mind again.
Now, as she took her post-lunch stroll up Fifth and over to Madison to browse shop windows, she stopped to admire a good collection of antique jewelry in a small store. The light was such that Annabel could clearly see her reflection in the window, and she moved to avoid it to see the jewelry more clearly, and saw instead the reflection of a man across the street. It wasn’t the same man as the day before, but he was dressed similarly in a tan raincoat, and seemed to be reading the pick-up times on a corner mailbox. She wouldn’t have thought much of it except that she wondered how much information could be on the box to keep him engaged so long. Either the entire Constitution was pasted there, or he was illiterate.
She went to the corner and waited for the light to change, looking straight ahead but seeing in her peripheral vision that he’d crossed the street against the light and now lingered on the far corner. This time, he looked down at what appeared to be a map in his hands.
The light changed in her favor. She started to cross, quickly reversed herself, and walked east on the cross street, stopping halfway down the block in front of a restaurant. She looked inside. There was a bar by the window with one man sitting there. She entered and went to a bar stool that placed her in front of the window.
“Yes, ma’am?” the bartender asked.
Annabel, who had swiveled on the stool to look out the window, said without turning, “Club soda with lime, please.”
She saw the tan raincoat pass on the opposite side of the street. He didn’t seem to be looking for her; he’d probably seen her enter the restaurant. He never looked in her direction as he passed from her view. She paid for her drink, stood at the window, and looked up the street. He was gone.
She left the restaurant and scanned the block. No sign of him. He’d either decided to keep going, or had found a spot from which he could observe without being seen.
“Damn,” she said as she retraced her steps to Fifth and continued uptown. She stopped occasionally to see if he’d fallen in behind her, but saw no more of him.
Greist had wanted to meet at his office again, but Reed insisted they meet in a public place. His office was just too stifling and tawdry. They agreed on the Oak Bar in her hotel.
When Greist arrived, Annabel sensed he’d already been drinking—nothing overt, just that tendency to reach for the floor with his feet rather than finding it naturally. He was also outwardly more pleasant, which, she assumed, went hand in hand with whatever he’d consumed. He joined her at the small corner table she occupied.
“Did you talk to Mr. Smith?” Greist asked after he’d been served a scotch and soda.
“Yes, I did. His attitude matches mine, Mr. Greist. Unless there is some specific indication of the nature of the information you wish to sell, and proof, we couldn’t even begin to consider it.”
He sat back and held his drink in both hands, staring into it as though seeking his next line from the quietly bubbling liquid. He said to the glass, “That’s a shame.”
Annabel’s laugh was sardonic. “You wouldn’t expect us to recommend to our client that he pay half a million dollars for something we haven’t seen, would you?”
“Faith, Ms. Reed. There is no such thing anymore as faith and trust.”
“There certainly isn’t in this situation, and I
think you’re absurd to expect it.”
A tired smile formed on his lips. “Ms. Reed, this is a treacherous world. Information can be its salvation, or its ultimate destruction.”
The word “crackpot” crossed her mind. She had the feeling he was about to give a speech, something vaguely political and filled with clichés about the state of the world as he perceived it. She could do without that, did not want to waste time being on the receiving end of it. He slowly turned to her and said, “The information I offer your client, the honorable senator from California Kenneth Ewald, could change the course of events in this country, perhaps in the world, if it were to get into the wrong hands.”
Annabel couldn’t help but laugh. “Mr. Greist, you’re not making any sense at all. I think we’d get a lot further if you would be specific instead of talking in grandiose terms about world change.”
“You get what you pay for, Ms. Reed.”
She asked, “How did your client come into possession of this so-called world-shaking information?”
“Irrelevant.”
Should I say “overruled”? she wondered. “Maybe to you, but not to me or to Mackensie Smith. Is your client here in New York now?”
“Ms. Reed, I did not agree to meet you again to answer your questions.”
“Fine,” she said. “Then you’ll just have to go ahead and file your suit on behalf of Mrs. Feldman for the loss of her daughter’s civil liberties, and for her pain and suffering.” She motioned for the check.
Although Greist had had a drink on top of what he’d earlier consumed, he seemed more sober than when he’d walked in. He stood and said through slack lips, “You and Mr. Smith are making a grave mistake, and obviously do not have your client’s best interests at heart.”
“I take it the drink is on me,” Annabel said.
“I’m sure your wealthy client provides you with a large expense account. Good evening, Ms. Reed.”
She watched him disappear into the lobby. Was this all one grand bluff on his part, a transparent shakedown, or was there even a modicum of truth behind his threat? The waitress brought the check; Annabel quickly laid more than enough money on top of it and went to the lobby. Greist was gone. She moved to the street and saw, far in the distance, a man across Fifth Avenue, beyond the fountain. It might have been Greist. She ran to the corner, crossed, slowing to a walk as she reached the figure. It was Greist. He was walking east, and didn’t seem to be in any hurry.
She fell in behind him at what she considered a safe distance, thinking of the men that she now was convinced had followed her and vowing to do a better job than they had. While waiting for a light to change at the corner of Park Avenue and Fifty-first Street, she looked over her shoulder and wondered whether the follower was being followed.
Greist went south on Park Avenue, past the barricaded entrance to the Waldorf Astoria, and took a left on Forty-eighth Street. Reed kept pace with him until he turned into the main entrance of the Inter-Continental Hotel. She quickened her pace until she reached the entrance, checked to make sure he wasn’t lingering inside the door, and entered. Her heart tripped; Greist had stopped by the massive bird cage that dominated the lavish lobby. He was six feet from her. She turned and bent over as though searching in her purse. When she thought enough time had passed, she looked in the direction of the cage. He was gone. She quickly scanned the large, two-level lobby. The raised portion to her left was half-filled with men and women enjoying cocktails while a tuxedoed pianist played show tunes.
Annabel used the bird cage as a screen and looked through it. Greist had joined someone at a table, a woman wearing a black raincoat whom Annabel judged to be in her early sixties, with gray-blond hair cut short. Annabel couldn’t see her full face because of the angle at which the woman sat, and she had absolutely no reason to assume anything, but only one thought came to mind: Mae Feldman.
She lingered a few seconds more, couldn’t hear or read lips, and concentrated on remembering everything she could about the woman. Then she went back out to Forty-eighth Street, keeping her back to where Greist and his companion sat, and made tracks for the Plaza and a chance to get on the telephone.
22
Mac Smith drove slowly along Route 50 to Annapolis. He wasn’t at all certain whether Janet Ewald would be there, could only hope that she would. He’d tried to call Marcia Mims at the Ewald house but was told it was her day off, which he already knew. Would she be there, too? Again, all he could do was speculate.
He wondered how Annabel’s second meeting with Herbert Greist had gone. Maybe it was still in progress. That was the first call he would make once he’d finished in Annapolis.
This time, he found a parking space close to the building that housed the store and Tommy’s apartment. He looked up at the windows and saw that there was a light on—a positive sign. He got out of the car, locked it, and walked slowly toward the door, realizing that without Marcia and her key, he had no way of entering. He searched for a buzzer but found none, and rapped on the one small window in the exterior door. There was no reply.
Baloney, he thought as he crossed the street and looked up at the windows again. The light was low-wattage. He waited for ten minutes for some sign of life, a shadow, the movement of someone across the room. Nothing.
He decided to leave his car where it was and walked to Tommy’s. The restaurant was as busy as it had been the previous night. Tommy spotted Smith as he walked through the door, immediately came over to him, put his hand on his arm, and guided him back outside.
“Something wrong?” Smith asked.
“I think so,” said Tommy. “Marcia told me you were coming back tonight. She seemed uncertain whether you’d meet her here at the restaurant or at my apartment, and she decided to wait for you here.”
“Where is she?” Smith asked.
“I don’t know. She had a drink at the bar just before the rush began. I was busy with paperwork in my office. When I came out, she was gone.”
“Where did she go, to the apartment?”
“No. My bartender told me she received a phone call. She hung up and left.”
“You haven’t heard from her since?”
“No.”
“What about the apartment, Tommy? Is …” He wondered whether Tommy knew that Janet Ewald was being hidden there by Marcia. He decided it didn’t make any difference whether he knew or not. “Do you know whether Janet Ewald is still in the apartment? I swung by there and saw a light, but no one answered.”
Tommy shook his head. “Marcia told me why she needed the apartment, but I haven’t heard any more about Ms. Ewald. I don’t know whether she’s still there or not.”
“Look,” said Smith, “will you give me a key to the apartment so I can let myself in?”
“Sure.” He handed the key to Smith.
“Thanks. Be back soon.”
Smith returned to the small building, let himself in downstairs, and knocked on the door to the apartment. There was no answer. He tried it; it swung open easily. The light he’d seen came from an overhead fixture in the small bathroom.
He stood in the middle of the room and turned in a circle, his eyes taking in everything. There was no sign that anyone had ever been there. Everything was neat; a small suitcase he’d noticed the previous night, and had assumed belonged to Janet, was gone.
Then he looked at a table near the door. A manila envelope rested on it. He picked up the envelope and read what was written on it: “Mr. Smith. Take this and keep it safe. Please do not open what is in this envelope unless something happens to me. Thank you. Marcia Mims.”
He left the apartment, got into his car, turned on the overhead light, and opened the envelope. Inside was a book with a blue leather cover. Stamped on it in gold leaf was DIARY. He put it back in the envelope, slid the envelope beneath the front seat, and drove back to Tommy’s Crab Cake House.
“Anyone there?” Tommy asked.
“No.” He handed Tommy the key and thanked him. “I’d lik
e to talk to the bartender.”
“Sure.”
Smith introduced himself to Tommy’s bartender and asked if he had any idea who’d called Marcia.
“No idea at all. It was a woman.”
“You answered the phone?”
“Yes.”
“What did the woman say?”
The bartender laughed and shrugged. “Just asked me if Marcia Mims was here. I told her to wait a minute, put down the phone, and told Marcia she had a phone call.”
“Did Marcia seem upset when she got off the phone?”
“I never noticed. She was gone in a flash, left most of her drink sitting on the bar.”
Smith thanked the bartender and Tommy, and drove back to Washington. He put his car in the garage, took the envelope from beneath the seat, and sat in his recliner in the study, the envelope on his lap. The temptation to open it and begin reading was strong, but he decided he’d be stronger. He placed the envelope beneath papers in the bottom right drawer of his desk and hoped there would never be reason to read it.
Then he sat looking at the drawer.
* * *
Senator Kenneth Ewald was winding up a speech in the ballroom of the Willard Hotel to a five-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner of party movers-and-shakers. Always handsome, he was even more so in his tuxedo. Leslie, dressed in a simple but elegant white dinner dress, sat at his side and looked up adoringly. There was an unmistakable renewal of energy in his face and voice as he said, “This is a particularly happy day for Leslie and me. Recently, we’ve had a tremendous personal tragedy enter our lives. A talented and decent young woman was murdered in cold blood, a young woman who served me and the things I stand for so admirably as a member of my staff. Then, as you all know, our only son, Paul, was taken in and questioned about that brutal murder. You can imagine what that did to us as parents. That situation naturally had to take center stage in our lives, disrupting my run for the Democratic nomination. Leslie and I seriously considered dropping out, putting public service on the shelf, and devoting all our energies to helping our son. Fortunately, that wasn’t necessary. Paul was released almost immediately because the police realized he had nothing to do with the murder.”
Murder at the Kennedy Center Page 18
