Murder at the Kennedy Center

by Margaret Truman

  “I’ll be back in Washington tomorrow night. We have to talk Monday morning.”

  “About what?”

  “Do you know a New York attorney named Herbert Greist?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Well, you’re about to. Ken, this is not for the phone. I only called to let you know that I think we should talk as soon as possible.”

  Ewald’s sigh was audible. “All right, but my schedule is really getting jammed. The polls are looking up again—and I want to keep them that way. Is there something I should be especially concerned about?”

  “We can explore that when we get together. Say hello to Leslie.”

  Annabel arrived an hour later. “How’d it go?” Smith asked.

  “Better than it went for you, I think. Are you drunk?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  He refilled his glass as she kicked off her shoes, discarded her suit jacket, and flopped on the bed. He handed her a drink.

  “Mac, did you get the impression at the hospital that Madame Zaretski has fallen for our Tony?”

  Smith laughed. “I plan to be best man at the wedding. What did you find at Mae Feldman’s house?”

  “Not much. There’s a lot of male clothing in the closets.”

  “Yes, Tony told me that.”

  “As I was looking around, I kept thinking of what you’d told me about Andrea Feldman’s apartment in Washington, sparse, looking as though it weren’t really lived in. Her mother’s place is the same. It’s so Spartan, very little personal around.”

  “Like mother, like daughter. Did you notice anything unusual about the male clothing, particularly the suits?”

  “I didn’t look very closely at them. I felt them. Cheap fabric.”

  “You didn’t pull out a jacket and look at it?”

  “No, why would I do that?”

  “I’m not saying you should have, but Tony did.”

  “He did? Why?”

  “Because he’s been an investigator a long time, I suppose. Remember the description you gave me of Herbert Greist?”

  “Of course.”

  “You said his arms were especially long, and that one arm was longer than the other.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Funny, Tony said the jacket he examined in Mae Feldman’s apartment looked like it would fit King Kong.”

  She laughed. “Are you saying …?”

  “I’m suggesting that it’s possible that Herbert Greist at least uses Mae Feldman’s closets for winter storage.”

  “Or had a relationship with her that was a little closer than that.”

  “Exactly.”

  Annabel went into the bathroom, whistling on her way. Smith sat in the chair and observed her looking into the mirror and correcting a fault with her eyebrow that only she could see. Strange, he thought, that she would react in such a cavalier manner to the possibility he’d just raised about Greist.

  She returned to the main room and changed channels on the television.

  “Annabel, did you hear what I said?”

  She looked at him and opened her eyes wide. “Yes, I heard you.”

  “And?”

  “I think you’ll need more tangible proof that the suits in the closet belong to Herbert Greist.”

  “Of course I need more tangible evidence, but don’t you think it’s …”

  She got up, came to him, and touched him lightly on the nose with her index finger. Her smile was playful. “Would you like more tangible evidence?”

  “Wait a minute, what are you holding back from me?”

  She pulled something from her purse and handed it to Smith. “This was buried beneath clothing in one of the drawers.”

  Smith looked down at a photo of a man he judged to be in his early twenties. “Who is this?” he asked.

  “Herbert Greist.”

  “This is Greist? This is a young man.”

  “Mae Feldman was obviously a young woman when she had Andrea. Sure, Greist is a lot older now, but this is him, Mac, the young Herbert Greist, Communist sympathizer, blackmailer, Mae Feldman’s lover, and, probably, the father of a dead daughter named Andrea Feldman.”

  Smith scrutinized the photograph more carefully, looked at Annabel, and said, “You’re sure this is Greist?”

  “Yes. Young, old, it’s his face.”

  Annabel started to remove her clothing in the center of the room.

  “Good job, Annie.”

  “As good an investigator as Tony?”

  Smith sighed. “Yes.”

  “I only did it because I am the breed of woman who will do anything for the man she loves.”

  “Enough,” Smith said. “You got the keys back in Carla’s purse?”

  She looked sternly at him. “Of course. I also follow orders very well. By the way, Tony hopes we’ll arrange to get him out of here and back to Washington.”

  “I’ve already put that in motion. I made some calls after you left the hospital.”

  She was now naked. “You are a beautiful breed of woman, Annabel Reed.”

  “Thank you.”

  He stood and removed what little clothing he wore, crossed the room, and embraced her.

  “Hard feelings seem to have suddenly developed between us,” she said.

  He said into her ear, “We can’t have that, can we?”

  They resolved it shortly thereafter.

  28

  Smith and Annabel flew back to Washington on Sunday. He called Ken Ewald first thing Monday morning.

  “I’m on my way to St. Louis for a fund-raising luncheon,” Ewald said.

  “I told you it was necessary we talk as soon as I got back,” Smith said. “What time is your flight?”

  “Eleven,” Ewald said.

  “I’ll meet you at the airport,” Smith said. “Get there early.”

  Ewald agreed, without enthusiasm. The Clipper Club at ten. My enthusiasm for all this is waning, too, Mac Smith thought. Too many lies, evasions, unanswered questions. I still think I should help this man, he still seems to want my advice, but he’s also always off and running. In class this morning, there are probably unanswered questions and evasions, too, but those I could handle.…

  As Smith was about to leave, his phone rang. It was an attorney named James Shevlin, who’d been with the FBI and with whom Smith had had dealings when he was in active practice.

  “Pleasant surprise, Jim,” Smith said.

  “Yes, Mac, it’s been a while. How’ve you been?”

  “Fine, just fine. Busy, but …”

  “Yes, I imagine, based on what I read in the papers and hear on television.”

  Smith laughed. “Well, it’s winding down. Look, Jim, I’ve got to run out to an important meeting. Hate to be impolite.”

  “Any chance of getting together this afternoon?”

  “Sure.”

  “Two o’clock, my office?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Shevlin had been with the Bureau for sixteen years. Then, unexpectedly, he had resigned to open a private law practice in Washington. His resignation didn’t make sense to most people; he had only a few years to go to retirement, and by resigning had presumably tossed it out the window.

  Those more intimately familiar with the workings of the FBI, however—including Mac Smith—knew that Shevlin hadn’t lost a thing by resigning. Although such moves were never confirmed, those in the know counted Shevlin among other agents who’d been “allowed” to resign, their pensions paid through a separate fund, in return for their continued cooperation with the Bureau. There were lawyers scattered across the country functioning in that capacity, just as there were accountants, also former agents, who fed financial information to the Bureau on candidates for tax-evasion charges.

  Ewald was waiting in the Clipper Club with Ed Farmer, a Secret Service agent, and two senior advisers when Smith came through the door. “Can we talk alone?” Smith asked Ewald.

  The others walked away.r />
  “Ken, I have questions I’d like to have answered.”

  “Such as?” Ewald said flatly.

  “I mentioned to you on the phone an attorney from New York named Herbert Greist.”

  Ewald shrugged. “I told you I never heard of him.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Greist claims to be representing Andrea Feldman’s mother, Mae Feldman. He says her mother wants to bring an action against you and the family for the loss of her daughter’s civil rights.”

  “Preposterous. Paul has never been charged.”

  “Yes, that’s true, but there’s more to this. The fact is that Greist really doesn’t want to bring a suit at all. That was his initial approach, when he suggested we discuss an out-of-court settlement. I sent Annabel to New York to meet with him, and she got a very different story. To put it bluntly, he’s in the process of trying to blackmail you through me. He wants a half-million dollars.”

  Smith expected Ewald’s face to reflect confusion and surprise. That’s not what he got. Instead, Ewald sat back in his chair and slowly shook his head.

  “Any idea what information he might have that would prompt him into such action?”

  Ewald sat forward again. “No, no idea whatsoever.”

  “Ken, has Roseanna Gateaux ever mentioned Herbert Greist?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Has she?”

  “No.”

  “Annabel and I went to San Francisco to follow up on this. Actually, my investigator, Tony Buffolino, went out there first, and ended up in the hospital. That’s a long story, and I won’t get into it now. While we were out there, I made contact with an old friend who’s involved with the Embarcadero Opera Company. It’s small and struggling, but good. According to my information on Greist, he spent time in San Francisco. While he was there, he functioned in some legal capacity for Embarcadero. At the same time, Roseanna Gateaux was doing a considerable amount of fund-raising for the company. It seems to me that there is every possibility that they might have met under those circumstances.”

  “So what?”

  “Well, you have had an intimate relationship with Roseanna Gateaux, and as we all know, pillow talk sometimes leads us to reveal things we wouldn’t reveal under other conditions.”

  Ewald laughed; it was forced. “Mac, what the hell do you think I did, give Roseanna state secrets, the technical plans for SDI, the names of CIA agents? This is silly.”

  “It may be, Ken, but I have an obligation to you to tell you everything I know about this. Greist is serious. At least that’s the way Annabel and I read him. Let me take another tack. How much do you know about Andrea Feldman’s background?”

  “Mac, I …”

  “This is important, Ken. What did you know about her background?”

  Ewald thought for a moment. “Very little.”

  “Do you have any idea who her father was?”

  “No. Are you suggesting that …?”

  Smith shook his head. “Ken, I am suggesting nothing except that Greist must have something that he feels is of sufficient interest to you that you would pay to have it returned or forgotten.”

  “I have no idea what this Greist character thinks he has to sell about me, and I don’t care.” He looked at his watch. “I have to go. I appreciate what you’ve been doing, but, frankly, Greist sounds like an opportunistic crackpot to me.”

  “That may be,” Smith said, “but he’s been involved over the years with various Communist causes. The FBI and CIA have long dossiers on him.”

  Ewald stood and extended his hand. “Thanks, Mac. I know you’re looking out for my best interests. It’s just that I don’t see much significance to any of this.”

  Smith scrutinized Ewald’s face. Somehow, as convincing as his words sounded, Smith had the feeling there was more going on in his mind than a simple dismissal of Greist and his threats. Ewald, uncomfortable with Smith’s hard stare, leaned close and said, “Mac, Roseanna and I may have slept together, but I assure you, the only words exchanged between us were the sort heard in bed between lovers, hardly the stuff national security is made of. We made love, not war.”

  Smith said, “I’m sure that’s true, but do you think there’s a possibility that the very fact that you slept with Roseanna Gateaux is what Greist knows, and is willing to hush up for a price?”

  That hadn’t occurred to Ewald. His face sagged, and his tone was somber. “I hope not, Mac. It would devastate Leslie.”

  Ed Farmer waved from across the room. “We have to go, Senator.” Ewald said, “Sometimes Ed is a pain, but he’s efficient.” He started to walk away, but Smith grabbed his arm. “Ken, before you go. Did you have an affair with Andrea Feldman, too?”

  “What the hell have you been doing, peeping through my windows?”

  “No need to. There have been enough other people willing to do that. What about it, Ken? Did she have access to sensitive materials through you?”

  “No.”

  “You did have an affair with her?”

  “No, I did not. My son took care of any sexual servicing of Ms. Feldman.”

  Smith decided to press. He quickly told him about Tony Buffolino’s evening with Mae Feldman’s friend and landlady, about his being shot, and about a box being taken from Mae Feldman’s home.

  Ewald could not suppress the frustration and anger he felt. “What the hell does that have to do with me?” he asked in too loud a voice.

  “I was hoping you could answer that.”

  “A locked box? Maybe it contained her will and cemetery deed.”

  “I hope that’s all it contained. Look, Ken, I know you’re busy, but everything I’ve laid out for you here could have ramifications for your candidacy, and you know it. I suggest you not dismiss it out-of-hand.”

  “Is that legal advice?”

  “No, that’s advice from a friend who cares about whether you make it to the White House.”

  A sadness came over Ewald’s face. “I’m sorry, Mac. I guess I’m just on edge these days. Let’s talk again when I get back.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Tonight. I’ll call you.”

  Smith watched Ewald join the group and start to leave the club, and was suddenly compelled to tell Ewald that he’d seen Janet. He caught up with them and said, “Ken, sorry, just one more private moment, please.”

  They moved to the side of the corridor. “I’ve seen Janet,” Smith said.

  “You did? When?”

  “A few nights ago. She’s disappeared again. She’d promised to meet me a second time, but she didn’t show up. She says she’s too frightened to come back.”

  Ewald guffawed.

  “I just thought you ought to know. Safe trip.”

  Smith showed up promptly at two o’clock at Jim Shevlin’s law office. “How’s your caseload?” Smith asked once they’d been seated and Shevlin had poured them coffee.

  “Could be busier, but then I’d have to expand.” Shevlin smiled. “I like being a one-man operation.”

  Smith smiled, too. When your major client—maybe the only one—was the FBI, you couldn’t be anything but a one-man operation, unless your client sent you a cleared partner.

  “So, what prompts you to invite me here?” Smith asked.

  Shevlin lowered his voice and said, “Mac, what do you know about an attorney in New York named Herbert Greist?”

  Smith told Shevlin what he’d learned from his friend in New York, Morgan Tubbs. Shevlin listened quietly, and the expression on his face led Smith to believe that Shevlin already knew everything he was saying. When he was done delivering his thumbnail on Greist, he asked, “What’s your interest in him?”

  Shevlin removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and placed the glasses back on his nose. “Mac, a more important question is, what’s your interest in Herbert Greist?”

  “Why do you assume I have any?”

  Shevlin’s voice lowered even more. “Mac, I really appreciate your coming here. I don’t
know whether you’re aware that I maintain friendly ties with my former employer, have a few occasional contacts.”

  Nice understatement, Smith thought.

  “Sometimes, when an important issue comes up, they’ll ask me to do them a favor. It doesn’t happen often, but I usually try to oblige.”

  I’m sure I would, too, under the circumstances, thought Smith. Did Shevlin realize that Smith knew that what he was saying was false, a boilerplate speech he’d probably made hundreds of times since leaving the Bureau and setting himself up as an unofficial link to that organization? Smith raised his eyebrows as though he were hearing something for the first time.

  Shevlin hesitated, as though deciding whether to continue. Smith had no doubt that he would. He did. “This attorney, Greist, has had a long history of links with Soviet sympathizers, but then you already know that, according to what you just told me about him.”

  “Yes, I understand your former employer and the Central Intelligence Agency have been keeping tabs on him for some time.”

  “Exactly. Are you still the opera lover you were when you were in practice?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Well, I thought you might have run into Greist somewhere along the line. He was plugged into the opera crowd.”

  “Really?” Smith was glad he’d come; ideally, he would learn more than he’d be asked to give.

  “Greist was involved with a group out in San Francisco called the Embarcadero Opera Company. My information is that he was general counsel to that group. Undoubtedly a fancied-up title.”

  “Undoubtedly. Jim, I don’t know Greist personally, have never met him. I had occasion to check into his background concerning a threatened legal action but …”

  “Mac, my contact at the Bureau, with whom I occasionally touch base, asked me how well I knew you. I told him we’d always had a friendly relationship. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “So, my contact—”

  “With whom you have only occasional contact.”

  Shevlin’s smile started small, and ended up bursting across his face. “Yes, my contact felt that you might help us learn a little more about Mr. Greist.”

  “Help us?”

  “Slip of the tongue. Help them.”