Edwards thought before responding. “No,” he said. “Never. The gentlemen from the FBI asked about that, too.”
“They interviewed you?”
“Yes. A man and a woman from the Indianapolis office. They were very nice. Very polite.”
“That’s always been my experience. Unless, of course, you give them a hard time.”
“I would never do that,” Edwards said.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” Smith said. “How much has Marge discussed with you about her job as Latham’s scheduling secretary?”
“Not much.” He drank. “Sure I can’t tempt you?”
Smith shook his head. “What did she say when she did discuss it? Her job, that is.”
“Oh, I don’t know. She complained a lot about how hard it was. But she liked the congressman. Liked him very much, the way I heard it.”
“What about her colleagues in the office? She like them, too?”
“Oh, yes. Well, there is a chap—name is, ah, Bob—”
“Bob Mondrian, Latham’s chief of staff.”
“Yes, that’s right. It seems Marge and this Bob didn’t get along all that well.”
“Any reason for it?”
“Not that she ever said. I gather he’s a bit of a dictator.”
“The pressure in those jobs is intense,” Smith offered. “Anything else Marge might have said about the people she works with?”
Edwards shook his head. “I’m ready for a refill,” he said.
“I will join you,” Mac said. “Scotch, bourbon? With water?”
“Either one.”
“Bourbon. Light.”
Glasses in their hands, Smith continued.
“Do you have any idea, Jim, where Marge might be?”
“No.”
“Other family she might have gone to? Close friends?”
“I’ve talked with other family members as recently as this afternoon. They haven’t heard from her.”
“Has she disappeared like this before?”
“Not that I recall. No, never. Oh, we fall out of touch from time to time, but—”
“For how long at a stretch?”
“A month, sometimes. About a month. She’s real busy in Washington. Nice city. I’ve visited her a few times since she moved there.”
“She’s a pretty, vivacious young woman. An active social life, I imagine.”
“Marge always had lots of beaus. Real popular in high school and college.” It was a small, rueful laugh. “She’s like most women her age, I suppose. Hears the biological clock ticking and wonders why she isn’t married and doesn’t have kids. She came close a few times.”
“Really?”
“Funny, asking before about whether she had any problems with people she works with … The maddest I’ve ever seen her—I mean, since she became an adult; lots of temper tantrums in high school, like most teenagers—was when she was going out with the congressman’s son.”
“Martin Latham?”
“That’s right. She was really in love with him, I can tell you. Called every other night to tell me how happy she was. I thought I was about to have a son-in-law.”
“What happened?” Smith asked.
“It broke up. Martin left Washington and went someplace to become a woodworker, I think. Some craft like that. Marge wanted to go with him, but he wanted to go alone. She was very hurt, very angry.”
“I see.” Smith tried to recall whether Paul Latham had ever mentioned to him that Martin was dating Marge Edwards. He hadn’t. Interesting pairing, Smith thought. Martin had to be eight or ten years younger than Marge.
“I wasn’t aware they’d dated.”
“She was never quite the same after that episode in her life,” Jim Edwards said. “There was a bitterness that crept in. Not overt. Not a big deal. But I could tell whenever we spoke.”
Smith had been waiting ever since his arrival at Jim Edwards’s house for the right moment to bring up Mondrian’s contention. Was there ever such a right time? This was as good a time as any, he decided. Jim Edwards was a nice man, open and candid. Unlikely he would take offense at such a question.
So Smith asked, “As Marge’s father, you obviously know her as well as or better than anyone else. Would you consider her unstable?”
The question caused Edwards to pause. He squeezed his eyes shut as though forcing the right answer to emerge through his mouth. He opened his eyes, inhaled, let the air out, and said, “I suppose you could say that. No, let me clarify it. Marge has always been high-strung. Very much like her mother was. Emotional. Feelings always on the surface. She’s capable of flying off the handle, even when it isn’t in her best interests. But so are a lot of people. Is that a definition of unstable? Maybe it is. I’ll leave it up to you.”
Smith said, “I’m really not in a position to judge your daughter, Jim, nor would I want to be. I’m here because I care about her, and want to know where she is so that I might be able to help her.”
“That’s what she said, you know. She said if she ever got in trouble in Washington, she’d want to talk to you. And I appreciate you coming all the way out to Indiana. May I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Do you think something terrible has happened to Marge?”
“I—”
“I’ve tried not to worry. I prefer to think she’s just gone away for a few days because of this damned stupid rumor about the congressman and her. She’s a big girl, all grown up. Still, I do worry. I guess you never stop being a father.”
Smith thought of his son. Sometimes you do stop, because you’re forced to.
“No, you never do, Jim. I’m glad I made this trip. I wasn’t sure why I wanted to come, couldn’t come up with a tangible reason for it. But I’m glad I did. To answer your question: No, I don’t think anything terrible has happened to Marge. Probably exactly what you said. She got away for a few days, and will probably be calling in any day to say she’s okay and to put to rest the rumor. By the way, I understand a private detective visited you, asking about Marge.”
“That’s right. A big fellow named Petrone.”
“Did he say why he was looking for her?”
“No. Well, he said he knew her. Was a friend.”
“A private detective. He didn’t say he was here on behalf of a client?”
“No. I have his card.”
Edwards dug it out from a pile of papers on a small desk in the corner, and handed it to Smith.
“James Perrone.”
“Yes. Perrone. Not Petrone.”
“Mind if I take this with me?”
“Not at all. I don’t intend to call him if Marge gets in touch.”
Edwards offered another drink, but Smith said he was tired and wanted to get to the hotel.
“Have you there in no time,” Edwards said. “You’re flying back tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“I’d drive you to the airport but I have to be at work.”
“A cab will do just fine. But thanks for thinking of it.”
They stood up to leave and the phone rang. Edwards looked at Smith with a questioning expression.
“Go ahead,” Smith said. “I’m in no rush.”
“Hello? Yes, he’s right here, Mrs. Smith. Just a moment.” He handed the phone to his guest.
“Hello, Annabel. Anything wrong?”
“No. But I’m glad I caught you. Marge Edwards just called.”
Smith glanced at Edwards, who was in the process of taking their glasses to the kitchen.
“Where is she?” Mac asked quietly.
“I don’t know. She wanted to speak with you. I started to tell her where you were, but she said she’d call again and hung up.”
“At least she’s alive. How did she sound?”
“Too brief a conversation to tell. How’s it going there?”
“Good. Ironic, huh?”
“What’s ironic?”
“I come to Indiana, and she calls me in Washi
ngton.”
“Life’s a series of ironies.”
“I know, I know. And most of them I could do without. How are you?”
“Fine. The press has decamped from in front of the house. They fly out with you? How’s Mr. Edwards?”
“Nice guy. He’ll be happy to hear about the call. He’s driving me to the hotel. I’ll call later from there.”
“Okay. And—oh, yes. Love you, Mac.”
Smith sensed Edwards had entered the room and stood just behind him.
“Me, too,” he said, returning the phone to its cradle.
Smith told Jim Edwards about the call from Marge as they drove to the hotel.
He could hear the man literally breathe easier.
“That’s a relief,” Edwards said. “I wish she’d called me.”
“I’m sure she will. Sometimes when you’re under pressure, you don’t want to bring your family in on it until it’s over.” He didn’t know whether that was true or not, but it seemed the thing to say.
They shook hands at the entrance to the Holiday Inn.
“Thanks for all your Hoosier hospitality, Jim.”
“No. Thank you for caring so much about my daughter. You’ll let me know when you talk to her?”
“Count on it.”
23
Smith had a light dinner in the Holiday Inn’s coffee shop, and spent the next few hours reading a book he’d brought with him, How Russia Became a Market Economy, published by the Brookings Institution. He checked in with Annabel before turning in for the night. Marge Edwards had not called again.
The next morning, he took the first flight to Washington, and had the taxi drop him in Georgetown at Annabel’s gallery.
After a serious embrace, she said, “I really missed you. You were gone weeks, not overnight.”
“Glad to be back. I swung by here because I’m not sure what to do with the knowledge that Marge Edwards is alive and presumably well.”
“I was thinking the same thing. Maybe you should report her attempt to reach you.”
“I suppose I should. Still, I didn’t speak with her. We have no idea where she is. No, I think it can wait till I actually talk to her.”
“It’s your call. Tell me more about Jim Edwards.”
Smith gave her a thumbnail sketch of his time with the father.
“So, he confirmed that his daughter might be termed unstable at times,” Annabel said.
“Not in so many words, Annie. But he didn’t paint her as a rock of emotional stability.”
He handed her the card given Edwards by the private investigator, James Perrone, and explained why he had it.
“Hmmmm. Based here in Washington,” Annabel said, noting a suite number at an address on New Jersey Avenue.
“Yeah. He told Edwards he knew Marge. I wonder if he did, or if he went out to Indianapolis for a client.”
“Who would that client be?” she asked. “Has Paul’s staff, maybe Bob Mondrian, hired him?”
Mac shrugged. “I might drop in on Mr. Perrone.”
Her eyebrows arched. “Why?”
“To follow up in every possible way on Marge’s disappearance. As long as this sexual harassment rumor floats out there, I think I owe it to Ruth and the kids. Spoken with Ruth?”
“Yes. She sounded okay.”
“Well, looks like nothing is new here,” he said, gesturing within the gallery. “Mind if I take the car?”
“Nope.” She handed him the keys; he knew the garage she used.
He drove home and unpacked. Mac Smith was as meticulous at unpacking as he was at packing. That applied to his briefcase, too. His first action upon returning home each evening was to empty it, put things away, and repack for the next day. Obsessive-compulsive? Certainly about his briefcase and luggage; he wore the badge proudly. He walked Rufus, had a bowl of soup, locked up, and headed for New Jersey Avenue.
He’d considered calling ahead to Perrone’s office, but opted instead simply to drop in on the PI. He didn’t know what he was seeking from Perrone. Knowing why someone might have hired a private investigator to find Marge Edwards would be interesting, but to what use? He wasn’t even sure why he was continuing this quest to find her. He could easily rationalize it—and had done so to Annabel more successfully than he had to himself—by his concern for Paul Latham’s reputation in death. The family. Bad enough to have lost a husband and father, but even worse to have a cloud of sleaze hanging over the loss. Like finding evidence of infidelity in a dead husband’s desk drawers at the office.
By the time Smith parked, and entered the building on New Jersey Avenue, he no longer grappled with motivation. You could spend your life questioning why you wanted to do something, and end up never doing it.
The sign on the door read J. PERRONE, PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS. There was a button to push, and a squawk box to the right of the handle. Smith pushed the button. A distorted female voice said, “Yes?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Perrone. Mackensie Smith.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No. I’m—I was Congressman Latham’s legal counsel.”
A prolonged pause.
A buzz sounded. Smith opened the door and stepped inside a small, cramped reception area. A receptionist sat behind a desk. “Mr. Smith?” she said.
“Yes. Is Mr. Perrone in?”
“Yes, but he’s in conference.”
A fancy way to say he’s busy, Smith thought. Or does not want to see me.
“If you’d like to make an appointment, Mr. Smith, I’ll be happy to do that.”
“Actually,” Smith said, “I’m only looking for a few minutes of Mr. Perrone’s time. I’m not here as a potential client. It has to do with Congressman Latham’s murder”—the word came out hard—“and the disappearance of Ms. Marjorie Edwards.”
Smith sensed as he spoke that his words were being piped into Perrone’s private office. It didn’t take long for that to be confirmed. The door opened and Perrone came through it, an unlighted cigar jutting from his mouth, a brace of red and yellow suspenders holding up his pants. He wore a mustard-colored shirt and wide black-and-white tie. The investigator was no fashion plate.
“Mr. Smith?” he said.
“Yes. I take it you’re Jim Perrone.”
“Right.” They shook hands.
“Sorry to barge in like this, but I thought I might get lucky.”
Perrone smiled. “If seeing me is good luck, Smith, your luck’s running bad. Come on in.”
“I don’t want to disturb your … conference.”
“It’s over.”
He stepped back to allow Smith to enter.
It was a pleasantly furnished and decorated office, nothing Raymond Chandler would have created for his hard-boiled, lean-and-mean, honor-driven private eye, Philip Marlowe. There was a softness to the pastel walls, thick wall-to-wall rose-colored carpeting, and mauve drapes. A woman’s touch, Mac thought.
“Sit down, Mr. Smith,” said Perrone. He took a high-back leather chair behind a teak desk on which there were few papers or files. The office was a lot neater than the man. “You were Latham’s lawyer, huh?”
“That’s right.” No need to qualify, Smith decided.
“And you’re wondering where Marge Edwards went.”
“Right again.” He’d heard every word from the reception area.
“So, why are you here talking to me?”
“Because you’ve been looking for her, too.”
Perrone’s hand went to his heart. “I have?” he said with exaggerated surprise.
“According to Marge Edwards’s father, Jim. Indianapolis?”
Perrone lighted his cigar. “You don’t mind, huh?”
“Not at all.” The suit was due for the cleaners anyway, Smith told himself.
“Jim Edwards told me that you claimed to be Marge’s friend. Or at least knew her.”
Perrone nodded.
“How did that come about?”
“What do you m
ean?”
“How did you become friends with her?”
Perrone dismissed the question with a smoky wave of the cigar.
Smith knew he would have to justify his questions if he hoped to receive any useful answers. He said, “Because Marge Edwards can’t be contacted, the rumor that she claims to have been sexually harassed by Paul Latham stays alive. I care about the Latham family, and want to put a stake through the rumor’s heart. I thought you might help me.”
“Maybe I would,” Perrone said. “Tell me why I should.”
“A sense of decency. You say you know Marge. Maybe you can tell me—”
“You say I know her.”
“You told her father you know her.”
“I met her a couple of times.”
“She ever tell you that Congressman Latham harassed her? Sexually, that is.”
Perrone nodded, drew smoke.
“She did?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. A month, two months ago.”
“Where did she tell you?”
Perrone stood and stretched.
Smith asked, “Why did she tell you?”
“Where? When? Why? What is this, the Inquisition?”
“You’ve heard of that.”
“Yeah, I—look, Smith, thanks for stopping in. If you want to hire me to find Marge Edwards, the fee is two-fifty a day and expenses. Interested?”
“Is that what your other client is paying you?”
“Have a nice day, Smith.”
Smith stood. “You, too, Perrone. Good of you to see me on such short notice.”
Mac got into his car and drove home. His brief encounter with James Perrone had angered him. At the same time, he found the exchange to have been of interest, perhaps even useful. He didn’t believe for a minute that Marge Edwards had claimed to Perrone that Paul Latham had sexually harassed her. And he seriously doubted they even knew each other, although he had nothing upon which to base that belief. Marge and Perrone would have had little in common, nothing to cause her to open up to a PI, if he was a PI.
Unless—unless it was money, that great social leveler.
He picked up the phone in his den office.
Murder in the House Page 17
