Murder at the Kennedy Center

by Margaret Truman

  “I didn’t do much.”

  “More than maybe you know, Bobby. Is he still sleepin’ around with that opera star, Gateaux?”

  “Yes.”

  Backus laughed. “Wonder if she’s as good at shatterin’ glasses in bed as she is on the stage.”

  “I don’t think much about things like that,” Jeroldson said.

  Backus yawned and scratched his sizable belly through a gap in his shirt. “You see, Bobby, although Senator Ewald and I are colleagues in the Senate, we never seem to see eye-to-eye on certain things that I feel this country vitally needs. People like Senator Ewald, even though they might think they’re patriotic, seem to be hell-bent on selling this country out to the Commies and their friends. I won’t mince words with you. Havin’ Ken Ewald in the White House could mean the end of this beautiful democracy of ours, and you have made a fine contribution to preserving this country I know you love as much as I do.”

  “Thank you.” He said it with a lack of expression that matched his face. Jeroldson’s evaluation report at the completion of his training at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Brunswick, Georgia—where Backus first met him—and at the Secret Service’s own academy in Beltsville, Maryland, had noted, “Agent Jeroldson possesses all the physical and mental attributes to become a useful agent. He is, however, a young man with unbending ideals and principles, which, perhaps, will have to be tempered if he is to develop into an agent with growth potential.”

  “I figured now that we’re smack dab in the middle of the end of this campaign, it was better for you to be with me. Now, all you have to do is keep an eye on this fat ol’ Georgia boy and make sure some crackpot doesn’t mistake me for a moose.”

  “I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen, Senator.”

  “Good, good. Best you take a walk now, go on up to the main house and read a magazine. I’ll let you know when to come back. Nice country up here, isn’t it?”

  “Beautiful.”

  “A little chilly. Keep the fire goin’.”

  After Backus had dined with Zach Filler on fresh bass, vegetables, and corn bread, the two friends took a walk. Backus wore old, wrinkled Sears work pants, a nubby green sweater over the dress shirt he’d worn that day, and a heavy black-and-red wool jacket.

  They crossed a bridge, went up a lonely road, and stopped on a bridge from which they could see the famed trout streams of Roscoe. The night was crystal clear, and chilly. The black sky above was blistered with millions of bright white stars.

  “Good dinner, Zach,” Backus said, staring out at the stream.

  “Joey’s a good cook, when he’s sober.”

  “Sometimes it’s better not to be sober, Zach. Sometimes it’s better for a man to miss what’s going on around him.”

  “You feel that way these days?”

  “Sometimes. My daddy always told me that when things get too complicated, all you’ve got to do is to stand back, give it some room, and it’ll all clear up. He was right, only he wasn’t dealing with the problems of keeping this country free. That’s a little more complicated. You see, Zach, sometimes a man has to do things that are personally distasteful to him. He has to do those things because there is somethin’ a lot bigger at stake, and in this case, it’s the future security of these United States.”

  Filler, too, gazed out over the stream, where light from an almost full moon caught the ripples and sent them dancing. He said, “I’ve never pried, Jody, not where I’m not wanted, and I won’t start now, but you look like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. If I can help …”

  “You already have, Zach. Comin’ up here is what my daddy said to do when things get rough.”

  “Ewald?”

  “Yup.”

  “I could never understand how anybody could consider him for president, especially compared to you.”

  Backus let out a gruff laugh. “That, my old friend, is a gross understatement, and I won’t pretend modesty. I have to hand it to Mr. Ewald, though, I really thought this country was finished with his kind of politics, and that I wouldn’t have a hell of a lot of trouble whuppin’ him in the primaries. The man proved me wrong. I gave it my best shot, Zach, and now that the handwriting is pretty much up there on the wall, I …” He shook his head. “Even though I’m a Democrat, I truly question what this country will be like if he ends up our president. Of course, I’ve got to go around sayin’ I’ll back him if he wins.” He slowly turned and looked at Filler, who had been staring at him. “That a bad thing for me to be thinkin’ and sayin’?”

  “Not to me, Jody, but you’re not the only one faced with that dilemma. Think of voters like me, who truly care about this country and sure as hell don’t want the likes of California Ken Ewald in the White House.”

  “You understand, then.”

  “Of course I do, but all I have to do is vote. I wouldn’t be in your shoes.”

  “I don’t want to be in my shoes, either.”

  Filler didn’t have any words for a few moments. Then he asked, “Do you think you can somehow still win the nomination?”

  Backus’s grin was illuminated by the moon. “Well, things have been better lately, Zach, only you never know. I know one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I know that it’s either goin’ to be me or Raymond Thornton in the White House. Either way, this country will sail an even course.”

  Filler looked at his large friend with admiration in his eyes. “This country was built by people like you, Jody, and thank God we still have your breed.”

  The next morning, another limousine arrived at Filler’s lodge. Two men wearing chest waders, bulging fishing vests, peaked hats, and large polarized sunglasses stepped from it and immediately got into a Voyager minivan that was waiting for them. The driver, Secret Service agent Jeroldson, left the parking lot and drove the new visitors, along with Jody Backus, to a point on the stream where it curved, and where a deep trout pool existed. Backus and his visitors went down a gentle bank and stepped with care into the fast-flowing water, using wading staffs for support. They’d said nothing from the moment the men got into the van. Now, after they cast their flies into the water and stood silently for several minutes, Backus said, “I think we might be goin’ a little too far.”

  The older of the two men who’d arrived that morning said agreeably, “I think everything is going just fine, Jody. Perfect, you might say.”

  “I don’t know, there’s a point where—”

  “If there’s a point, Senator, it’s that we could come close as a fly is to a tippet to losing this country, to losing democracy all over the world.”

  “I couldn’t live with that,” said Backus.

  “You won’t have to. God is all-giving.”

  “God? Seems like a few of us mortals have done a speck more, of late.”

  The older man made another cast. As the line snapped forward after looping behind him, the hook on the small fly caught in the fabric of his hat. He removed his hat and glasses, and worked to disengage the barb.

  Zach Filler, who’d strolled down to the stream and watched the action on it from a distance, narrowed his eyes and focused on the older man as he attempted to remove the hook. Filler hadn’t had any idea who Senator Backus’s visitors were, nor did he care. Now, nonetheless, he knew. There was no mistaking him—the flowing silver hair, the handsome tanned face, the smile. He’d been on television too many times to not be recognized as America’s most famous television evangelist.

  27

  “Dr. Thelen, I’m Mackensie Smith. This is Ms. Reed.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Smith, Ms. Reed. You didn’t waste time getting here.”

  “No, Mr. Buffolino is—”

  “He’s told me how close you are. You’re partners, I understand.”

  “Partners? Well, it’s more a matter of …” He could see Annie grinning. “Yes, we’re partners. How is he?”

  “Doing very well, considering the amount of blood he lost.
His right thigh looks like it went through a meat grinder, but I’d say the prognosis is good. He’ll heal nicely, won’t lose too much leg function.”

  “ ‘Lose leg function’?” Annabel said. “We didn’t realize it was so serious.”

  “Let’s just say he won’t be winning any medals for the high hurdles, but he won’t need a cane, either,” Thelen said. “He’s lucky. That previous injury to his right knee was very severe. If he’d been hit there again … No, no, I think he’ll do just fine.”

  “Can we see him?” Annabel asked.

  “Of course. He’s still under sedation, but he’s fairly alert, sitting up, as a matter of fact. The woman who shot him, a Ms. Zaretski, is with him.”

  “She is … with him?”

  “Yes.” The doctor winked. “Been here almost every minute since he was brought in. An obvious accident. She thought he was a burglar.”

  “So I heard,” Smith said.

  “She was an opera star,” Thelen said.

  “Really?” Smith said. “Maybe if she thought he was a burglar, she thought she was an opera star.”

  Thelen laughed. “No, she’s actually had quite a career. She told me all about it.”

  “I’m sure she has. We won’t stay long.”

  Tony was dozing in a chair when they entered his room. His leg was bandaged from hip to foot. A dying old man was in the other bed, his eyes fluttering, his frail body hooked up to a variety of high-tech medical equipment.

  Carla Zaretski sat next to Tony, holding his hand. When she was aware of Smith and Annabel, she looked up. “You must be Mr. Smith.” She said to Buffolino, “Tony, your partner is here.”

  Buffolino opened his eyes and focused on Smith’s face. “Mac.” He freed his hand from Carla’s grasp and reached up to Smith, who gripped it firmly. “How’s it going, Tony?”

  “Not bad. At least it wasn’t the goddamn knee.”

  “Hello,” Annabel said as Tony shifted his eyes to her.

  “Well, the famous Annabel Reed.” He smiled. “He drag you out here? How do you put up with this guy?” he asked. He started to laugh, which sent him into a painful coughing spell. When he regained control, he introduced Carla to them, and they chatted about Tony’s condition. Smith asked, “Would you mind if I had a few words alone with him?” He indicated to Annabel with his eyes that she should accompany Carla out of the room.

  Smith sat in Carla’s chair. “I’m glad you’re going to be okay, Tony. You’re lucky she didn’t aim a few inches higher.”

  “Or lower. The knee means more to me these days.”

  “Why were you breaking into her house?”

  “I wasn’t. She owns the house, but it’s a two-family place. Mae Feldman rents one side from her.” He grimaced in pain.

  “Are you all right?” Smith asked. “I’ll get a nurse.”

  “No, it’s okay. I figured I might as well take a look inside Feldman’s place, so I came through a back window.”

  “And she caught you.”

  “No. She was in her place sleeping off too much hooch. I found this locked box in a closet in Feldman’s foyer and was going to take it out to the car when two guys came through the front. I didn’t know there were two of them. The second one nailed me.”

  “Recognize them?”

  “No. The first one had a piece. He was a little guy.”

  “Little guy? Very little?”

  “Not big. I didn’t see either of them good, Mac. Anyway, I come to and go back out the rear window, only the queen wakes up when she hears me getting it, figures somebody’s rippin’ off next door, grabs a freakin’ shotgun, and does me. She didn’t know who I was till it was too late. She’s okay, a pain in the butt, but okay. Drinks too much.”

  Smith said, “I’ll bet. Did the little guy and his partner take the box?”

  “Yeah. When I come to, it was gone.” He sounded angry.

  “That’s all right, Tony. The only thing you should be thinking about is getting better.” Smith could see that Buffolino was drowsy. He asked, “Anything else in Mae Feldman’s apartment? See anything interesting besides the box?”

  “No, she must have a guy lives with her. Either that or she’s a dyke. Most of the clothes are men’s clothes, cheap stuff, cut funny. Maybe she lives with King Kong.”

  “King Kong?”

  “Yeah, the sleeves on the jacket I looked at were funny, long, hung down. Know what I mean?”

  “Yes, I think so.” Smith thought of the description of Herbert Greist Annabel had given him when she returned from New York. He asked, “Does your friend out there know where Mae is?”

  “No. She said she goes away a lot. I guess she really took off this time.”

  Smith frowned. “Tony, does Carla know that the men who beat you up also took a box from Feldman’s side of the house?”

  “Ask her.”

  “No, I’m not sure I want to do that. You say there was a lot of men’s clothing?”

  “Right, suits, shirts, underwear, shoes.”

  Smith looked over at the dying old man and hoped he wouldn’t end up that way, frail, alone, tied to machines. “Tony, I would love to get back into Mae Feldman’s side of that house.”

  “Shouldn’t be hard. Carla will let you in.”

  “She will?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “I’d rather get in there without her knowing about it. Any ideas?”

  Buffolino closed his eyes and moved his tongue over his dry lips. He opened his eyes and looked at Carla’s purse on the floor next to Smith’s chair. “Take her keys,” he said.

  Smith had to smile. He was not anxious to be arrested in San Francisco for illegal entry. It wouldn’t look good when he returned to teaching law at the university. Still, the temptation was strong. “Tony, do you think she’ll hang around here for the rest of the day?”

  “Probably. That’s one favor I want from you. Get the queen off my back, huh?”

  “I’ll do my best, but I want a favor from you, too. Keep her here for three or four hours. Make nice with her.”

  “You ask a lot for a grand a week, Mac.”

  “I’ll give you a bonus. For war wounds, and double-time for Carla.”

  “Okay. Hey, another favor for me. Call my wife—wives—and let ’em know what happened to me, only don’t make it sound too bad. And don’t tell ’em about the queen out there. Maybe you could say I got gunned down by some mafioso, something glamorous, and tell ’em I’m still on the case and that they don’t have to worry about money. Okay?”

  “Of course. It’s true. You are still on the case, and you don’t have to worry about money. Anything else I can do for you in return for this great sacrifice you’ve made on my behalf with the lady out there?”

  “Get me back to Washington. This is a nice place, and the doctors are great, but it’s too far away, Mac, too far away.”

  “I’ll arrange it. George Washington University has an excellent hospital and staff.”

  There was no further need for words. Tony looked at the closed door, reached over, slipped his hand into Carla’s purse, and came out with a set of keys. He handed them to Smith.

  “Here. Now you didn’t take ’em.”

  Smith said, “We’ll have these back in a few hours. Remember, keep your opera-singing friend happy and here. I’ll check in with you later.”

  When the women returned, Smith asked Carla, “Will you be staying with my partner a while?”

  “Yes, I could never leave this dear man alone in such strange and threatening surroundings.”

  “You’re a very good person, Ms. Zaretski.” It suddenly dawned on Smith: She was more than attracted—Carla had fallen in love with Tony. Tony deserved an even bigger bonus than Smith had planned. He kept his smile to himself.

  “Well, Ms. Reed and I have some business to attend to,” he said. “We’ll be back later today.”

  “A pleasure to meet both of you,” Carla said.

  “The feeling is en
tirely mutual, Ms. Zaretski,” Smith said as he took Annabel’s elbow and guided her out of the room.

  Downstairs, Smith handed Annabel the keys from Carla Zaretski’s purse.

  “What are these?”

  “The keys to Carla’s house. I assume one of them fits the door to the side Mae Feldman lives in. I want you to go there, Annabel, and take a good look through Feldman’s side.”

  “Mac, where did you get these?”

  “Tony took them from her purse. He’s going to make sure she stays here until you get back.”

  “Oh, Mac, I don’t think that I should be …”

  “You have to.”

  “Why do I have to?”

  “Because you’re a breed of woman who will do anything for the man she loves. Grab a cab, look around out there, get back here as soon as you can, go up to Tony’s room, figure out a way to get Carla out of it, and he’ll replace the keys in her purse. Nobody will know the difference.”

  “Why don’t we go together?”

  “Because I have other things to do. We’ll meet up at the hotel.”

  “All right, Mac, but I want you to know that behind that distinguished, pleasant facade lurks your real self.”

  “Which is?”

  “A devoted second-story man and con artist.” She kissed his cheek and went outside to where a line of cabs waited.

  At the end of the day, Smith went to their hotel, the Raphael on Union Square, and ordered up a bucket of ice, bottles of vodka and scotch, and two club sandwiches. He stripped off his clothes, took a hot shower, turned on the television, and poured himself a drink. He took a halfhearted bite from one of the sandwiches, turned down the TV’s volume, and dialed the telephone. One of the staff answered; a few moments later, Ewald was on the line.

  “This is Mac. I’m calling from San Francisco.”

  “What are you doing out there?”

  “Running down some leads.”

  “Leads to what?”

  “To what seems to be an evolving scenario that gets more tangled with every step.”

  “I don’t understand. Paul is home. The charges have been dropped. What scenario are you talking about?”