Murder at the Kennedy Center

by Margaret Truman

  “What?”

  “He told me that when this is over, he’d try to get me a good job. How about that?”

  “That’d be nice,” said Riga. “You know, Tony, I don’t have much more time till I retire. Maybe he could help me out, too. Maybe you put in a word for me. Would you do that?”

  Tony silently resented what Riga was asking. He wasn’t proud of what he was feeling, but it was there. Just like Washington, he thought, everybody always looking out for themselves. He mumbled something unintelligible and sipped his drink.

  After Riga left, Tony sat on the terrace until he fell asleep in the chair, his heavily bandaged leg propped on the table. Riga had made him another drink, and that empty glass joined others on the green Astroturf beneath his chair. He awoke at midnight to the sound of a low-flying commercial jetliner on its approach to National. He was drunk, but managed to make his way to the bedroom, where he flopped on the bed, fully clothed, and fell back into a fitful sleep.

  * * *

  Rufus, the giant blue Dane, stretched out across the foot of Mac Smith’s bed, forcing the human animals in it to retract their legs into the fetal position. Smith grumbled, got up, and went to the kitchen, where he turned on the coffee, squeezed fresh orange juice, retrieved the paper from the front steps, brushed his teeth, assured Rufus he’d be walked in short order, and climbed back into bed. “Coffee’s ready in a minute.”

  Annabel stretched, cooed, and turned over. Smith smiled as he looked down at that mass of hair covering her pillow. He was filled with love, which soon blossomed into lust. Moving over her, he transmitted his feelings, but she said through a yawn, “Mac, be civilized. Go get the amaretto gop you call coffee.”

  He swung out of bed again, went to the kitchen, and returned with their breakfast on trays, flipping on the TV as he passed. “Breakfast is served.”

  “Oh, God, you are a brute,” she said, pushing up against the headboard and running long fingers through her hair. “Turn off the TV. TV is for nighttime.”

  “Morning TV is important,” he said. “The world might have blown up overnight.”

  “Good.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if we were blown up with it.”

  “We weren’t. We’re here, in bed, with the world’s biggest dog.”

  They watched the news before the entertainment portion of the Friday edition of the morning show resumed. As a young, pretty actress whom neither Mac nor Annabel knew chatted with the host about starring in her latest motion picture, Smith said, “I’ve been doing some thinking, Annie.”

  “About what?”

  “About this whole adventure we’ve been on. I thought about it a lot last night. I think it’s time to get out of it.”

  She was gripped with a set of immediate and conflicting feelings. On the one hand, she was relieved. On the other, she was disappointed. She said, “Why this sudden change of heart?”

  “I don’t know, I just wonder what’s to be gained by hanging in. Leslie Ewald asked me last night why I was still involved, and I gave her one of those precious existential answers—you know, an I-want-to-climb-the-mountain-because-it’s-there kind of thing. Who am I kidding? I realized last night that I’ve been staying with this because it makes me feel important. I don’t need something outside of myself to feel important, never did. It’s time to wind things down and get back to the life of the unimportant college professor.”

  “I wouldn’t argue with you about that, Mac. Whatever you say is fine with me, and you know it.” She kissed him gently on the lips. “Tony will take this hard,” she said.

  “I know. I told him I’d do my best to find him a job when this was over, a job where he’s not expected to scale tall buildings. Maybe at the university. Besides, he’s made some decent money already, and I’ll see to it that he gets a healthy bonus out of what Leslie has paid me.”

  They watched television until Annabel asked, “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

  “No, I’m not sure, but a decision has to be made. As they say, any action is better than no action.”

  “Okay, then let’s get the morning going,” she said, jumping out of bed and touching her toes. “I have to get to the gallery, and you told Tony you’d be by to see him. Shall we have dinner out tonight to celebrate our return to the mundane?”

  He started to say yes, but hesitated. She picked up on it; he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to drop everything, and she could understand his ambivalence. She wouldn’t press. Let the day go by and see what it brings.

  32

  Herbert Greist stood at the dirt-crusted window of a room in a hotel on West Forty-seventh Street. He wore his black suit pants and a sleeveless undershirt. His socks were light gray silk; a large hole allowed one of his toes to protrude.

  He looked at Mae, who was awake but still in bed. A succession of noisy encounters in the next room between a prostitute and her Johns had kept them awake most of the night. Mae was on her back, her eyes fixed on the peeling ceiling. Greist picked up a cigar butt from a full ashtray and, with some difficulty, lighted it and looked out to the street again.

  “It won’t work,” Mae said, only her lips moving.

  “You never know,” he said. “We asked too much. He doesn’t want this kind of thing spread around, not with running for president. A hundred thousand, that’s all. We can leave the country, go somewhere safe and have enough to live on for a while.”

  Mae Feldman pushed herself up against the leatherette headboard and said, “You always say things will work. You always say not to worry, that you have it figured out. It doesn’t work. It never works.”

  He slowly turned and fixed his eyes on her, the cigar firmly wedged in the middle of his mouth. He removed it and said, “Things end. Nothing is forever. We’re still free, still with a chance. They don’t know where we are. We need money, that’s all. We can get it from Ewald.”

  “How? Call that attorney, Smith? Waste of time.”

  “I don’t need advice from you. Look what you did to us.”

  “What did I do? All I did was put the money in a box, and somebody stole it. That isn’t my fault, Herbert. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “You always do things wrong, Mae. You should have hidden the money in different places, spread it out. That would have been the smart thing to do. The files and papers, too. All in one place so they could pick it up and walk off. You’re so stupid.”

  There was pleading in her voice. “I tried to do the right thing, Herbert. Don’t be mad at me. I hate it when you’re mad at me.”

  “That money and those files were ours.”

  “That money was blood money, our daughter’s blood money.”

  “She’s dead. She can’t use the money.”

  Mae Feldman slumped back against the headboard and closed her eyes against the tears that seemed always to be forming.

  Greist said, “We call Ewald direct. We call and tell him that if he doesn’t hand us the money in cash, we go to the press, we tell them that he was screwing Roseanna and our daughter, too, for Christ’s sake, who’s now dead because of him. You don’t think he’ll pay a hundred thousand dollars to keep that quiet?”

  She sat up in bed again and said, “Herbert, if we go to the press and tell them this, they’ll quote us, run our pictures, and then the FBI will take us away for the rest of our lives, maybe even hang us for treason.” Before, she’d been talking with sleepy slovenliness. Now that Mae was fully awake, her words had a sharper edge. “The one good thing that ever came out of my meeting you is dead. All she did was to come to me with information from Ewald. She left it with me so that it would be safe and so that she could secure her own future. What did you do when you heard about it? You said, ‘Give it to me, and I’ll make us rich.’ How? Sell what Andrea worked so hard to get to your supposed friends, the losers you’ve hung with all your life? Get rich how, Herbert, by trying to blackmail a U.S. senator for a half-million dollars? Oh, my God, Herbert, you may be a lawyer, but that
doesn’t mean you’re always smart.”

  He hurled the cigar at her. It bounced off the wall and fell to the threadbare rose-colored rug. “You’ll set the place on fire,” she said, leaning over and picking it up.

  “Let it burn. Call him.”

  “Why should I call him? You call him, or get your tootsie to call him.”

  “You’re sick, Mae.”

  “No, I am just tired of being used by you. I’ve loved you ever since the day I met you, and I have never done anything to hurt you. But you hurt me every day. You have that blond pig here in New York and you flaunt her, make sure I know you have other women.”

  “She’s smart.”

  “Then go to her for money.”

  “She doesn’t have any money.”

  She went to the bathroom. When she returned, she said defiantly, “Why should I call him? You’re the lawyer, the negotiator, the one who is going to make everything work and everybody rich. Why should I call him, put my neck out, get linked up with you? As far as everybody knows, I don’t even exist, because that’s the way you wanted it.”

  “Shut up, just shut up and let me think,” he said, turning once again to the window.

  An hour later, they left the hotel. She went first, stepped out onto Forty-seventh Street, and casually looked up and down the block. Few people were up this early on a Saturday morning. She gave him a motion with her head and he joined her. They walked half a block to a coffee shop and had Spanish omeletes, French fries, and coffee.

  “Maybe we should just get on a plane and go,” she said. “I have enough for tickets.”

  “No. Ewald is the one who should bankroll us. He owes. You’re so sad about Andrea? She’s dead because of him. Let him pay.”

  “You’re talking about our daughter in these terms? You never cared about her. You left your sperm in me and walked away. I had her. I brought her up. She is my daughter, not ours. How dare you think you can—”

  He reached across the grimy Formica table and gripped her wrists. “Don’t push me more, Mae.”

  Fear flooded her eyes. She winced against the pain of his fingertips and pulled away, striking the back of her seat, causing people in the adjoining booth to turn and glare. He relaxed his grip and sat back. He now wore the black suit jacket, a soiled white shirt, and green tie. He brushed the lapels of his jacket. “I need a good cigar. You won’t call Ewald? I will.”

  “And I am going to leave,” she said. “You’re crazy, don’t you know that? We don’t need money from Ewald or anyone else. Let’s make our own way.”

  He grinned and picked a glob of green pepper from between two front teeth. “Suit yourself. You’ve always been a loser, Mae, and the only decent things you’ve ever had are what I gave you.”

  He stood at the side of the booth. She continued to sit, her fingers laced together as she tried to keep from crying. He was right. She’d never been anything, a pathetic and weak woman who failed at almost everything she did. Except, she thought, giving birth to and raising that beautiful young woman who went on to graduate from law school, and to work with powerful political figures. No one could ever take that away from her.

  She looked up and watched him ogle a short, shapely Hispanic waitress who wiggled past them. She wanted to ask, she’d wanted to ask a thousand times since that night, whether he’d killed Andrea. Each time, she stopped herself because she reasoned that a father would not kill his own flesh and blood. No father would.

  Mac Smith was about to head for the Yates Field House for some exercise when the phone rang. It was Ewald. “Catching you at a bad time, Mac?”

  “No, I was going to the gym. That’s always easy to put off. What’s up?”

  “Two things. First, I received a call from Herbert Greist.”

  “Greist called you? The FBI is looking for him.”

  “I know. He told me that he desperately needs a hundred thousand dollars. In return, he’s promised not to …” Smith knew the sudden silence was Ewald making sure he wasn’t being overheard. “He threatens to tell the public about Roseanna and me. He also claims I slept with his daughter.”

  “Andrea. Greist is her father. Where was he calling from?”

  “He didn’t say. He told me to give it some thought for an hour and that he would call back.”

  Smith leaned against the edge of his desk and sighed. “I wonder how Greist knows about your affair with Roseanna Gateaux,” he said. “A few days ago, he was trying to sell back to you the information on Garrett Kane that Andrea stole from your house. Now, he’s not offering that, just a simple request for money to keep his mouth shut about Roseanna and Andrea.” Ewald said nothing. “Okay, we’ll try to figure that out later. You said there were two things. What’s the second?”

  “Marcia is gone. She came back after taking some days off, then disappeared again.”

  “Yes, I’m listening.”

  “Leslie was concerned about her this morning. We hadn’t heard a peep from her. She went to Marcia’s room and found that Marcia had packed a bag. One of the gardeners said he’d seen her leave the house early this morning. She was picked up by a cab.”

  “Ken, I think I’d better come over right away. Is that all right with you?”

  “Yes, of course, but please continue to use discretion with this Roseanna thing. Leslie’s out now, but she may return while you’re here.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that with me, Ken. I almost had the feeling that … I had the feeling during our conversation last night that Leslie might already know about Roseanna.”

  “Suspects, doesn’t know for sure. No smoking handkerchief with lipstick on it.”

  “I’ll be there as quickly as possible.”

  As Smith walked into Ewald’s study, Ewald said, “You look like you’re ready for the big game, Mac.” Smith hadn’t bothered to change out of his gray sweats and white sneakers. He wore a George Washington University windbreaker, and a rumpled tan rainhat that was a particular favorite. Ewald was dressed in a beautifully tailored Italian-cut gray suit, white shirt, and burgundy tie.

  “Well, the saga continues,” Ewald said as he carefully sat on a chair and made sure the crease in his trousers wasn’t in danger of being crushed. “What do you think?”

  “Let me find out first what you think, Ken. How do you feel about this?”

  Ewald sat back and stretched his neck as though to work out a kink. He said, “I just wish the bastard would go away so I could focus on the campaign. The convention is in front of us, the National Committee is on my neck. If it isn’t one thing, it’s another.”

  “Wishing Greist away won’t do the job,” Smith said. “Still, my instincts tell me he’s bluffing. Think about it. He’s being hunted by the FBI for traitorous acts. Someone like that isn’t likely to go to the media to tell a story about a presidential candidate having slept with a woman other than his wife.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” said Ewald, seemingly relieved at Smith’s corroboration.

  “On the other hand,” Smith said, “you never can predict what people like Greist will do. The chances are good that he’s with Mae Feldman, Andrea’s mother. She could be the one behind this desperate grab for money, and she may be willing to do anything. We’ve found out that Mae Feldman had a sizable bank account, and that it was closed down the other day by a close friend in San Francisco. I wonder why they’re not getting money from her.”

  Ewald pressed his lips together in anger. “If Greist knows about my affair with Roseanna, that means he must know her, or someone who fed that information to him. That’s cause for real concern, wouldn’t you say?”

  Ewald got up and paced. “Well, learned counsel, what do I do now?”

  “Greist hasn’t called again?”

  “No. If he sticks to his promise to call within an hour, the phone should ring any minute.”

  “Obviously, Ken, you can’t pay blackmail or runaway money to a fugitive from the FBI. It seems to me your only course of action is t
o turn him down and take your chances.”

  “Or try to reason with him.”

  Smith laughed. “Greist isn’t the kind of creature you reason with. Annabel tried that on two occasions. Obviously, we should be on the phone right now to the FBI letting them know we might be able to help them find Greist and Mae Feldman. If you make a date with him to hand over money, that establishes where he is in New York. The Bureau can move in and arrest him.”

  Ewald walked across the room. As he stood at the window, and Smith sat in a chair observing him, the phone rang. Ewald turned quickly. “Could be him.”

  “I’d like to listen in.”

  “Go upstairs to the small office on the second floor. It’s—”

  Smith stood, “Yes, I know where it is. Is it open?”

  “Probably not. Here.” He handed Smith a key.

  The door to the study opened, and a secretary informed Ewald that he had a call from Mr. Greist.

  Smith bounded up the stairs, opened the door, and entered the small office. He waited a moment to give Ewald time to pick up, then gently lifted the handset and heard their voices. As he listened, the reel of tape on the top shelf silently began to turn.

  “Mr. Greist, you put me in a very difficult position,” Ewald said.

  “Yes, I know that, which is why I’m confident you will do what I say. Have you considered my offer?”

  “Yes, I have. It goes against everything I stand for, but I am willing to meet your request in return for your total silence.”

  Greist’s sigh of relief was audible. “Good. Here’s what you do.” He started to outline a meeting strategy when Ewald interrupted. “Mr. Greist, I have a few questions first.”

  “No idle talk here. I’m no fool. This call could be monitored. Here’s the way it works, no questions asked.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I want you to meet me tomorrow night in New York.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Ewald said. “I’m not exactly an unfamiliar face. I’ll send someone.”

  “Just as long as that someone has the money in cash.”