“You have reached the offices of Anthony Buffolino,” said a woman via the answering machine. “We are unable to take your call right now. Please leave your name, number, and a message if you wish and we will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you.”
“This is Mackensie Smith,” Mac said, “calling at—”
“Mac?”
“Tony? Don’t interrupt. I was talking to the machine.”
“Yeah. That time of the month. Everybody wanting to get paid. Great gadget, the answering machine. You get to answer—or not answer. Some calls I pick up, some I don’t. You, I pick up for even before you call. If you know what I mean.”
Mac Smith and Tony Buffolino (with an O) went back a long way together. Buffolino had been a Washington MPD detective, and a good one. His fifteen-year record was clean; a desk drawer was filled with citations of merit and letters of appreciation from local politicians and citizens groups.
Then, after taking three bullets in his right leg, two in the thigh and one in the knee, in a shootout during a bank robbery, he was retired on full pay.
But retirement wasn’t on Buffolino’s agenda. Despite the objections of his second wife, and the gibes of fellow officers who only dreamed of being retired at full salary, he undertook extensive physical rehabilitation, passed the physical, and was reinstated as part of a special task force formed to combat Washington’s burgeoning drug trade.
In retrospect, it was the wrong decision.
A year after joining the D.C. drug task force, one of his children from his first marriage developed leukemia, and the medical bills mounted, soared, until he made a fateful move that would forever change his life. He crossed the line between cop and criminal to cut a one-time deal with a notorious Washington-based Colombian drug dealer named Garcia. He would take Garcia’s dirty money only once, he rationalized, and simply turn it all over to his first wife so she could pay the doctors and labs and hospitals. Just a one-shot indiscretion.
Once was all that was needed for the MPD to set up a sting, with Garcia’s cooperation in return for leniency on a previous arrest. It occurred in a Watergate suite, and Tony Buffolino, with an O, was marched through the lobby in cuffs, forever disgraced, the fifteen years of heroic service, all the citations and awards nothing more than a measure of how far he had fallen.
Enter eminent Washington criminal attorney Mackensie Smith, through an intermediary for whom Smith had considerable respect. As abhorrent as drugs were to Mac, there was, at once, a mitigating set of feelings he developed for Buffolino. The cop had been stupid in seeking money from a drug dealer. He’d broken the code and dishonored himself. At the same time, having used a vicious drug dealer like Garcia to nail an otherwise good cop was anathema to Smith. And there was Buffolino’s motivation. Not to get rich or to live the high life. Separated, and eventually divorced from his second wife, he lived in an industrial area of Baltimore in a hovel he called an apartment, and drove a faded red 1978 Cadillac with a cracked white landau roof and white leather interior grimy from age and too many greasy cheeseburgers and spilled sodas.
Smith interceded with the MPD and local prosecutors and cut a deal for Buffolino: no criminal prosecution, but a dishonorable discharge from the force, loss of pension and other rights, and a public confession of wrongdoing.
It was a good deal for Tony. But although he accepted its terms, he viewed Smith as having sold him down the river, and treated him that way. Until one day, Smith needed the services of a private investigator, thought of Buffolino, who’d set up shop in Baltimore as a private eye, called him, and they got together.
The friendship they forged from that moment certainly wasn’t based upon common interests. They moved in vastly different circles. But there was a shared respect, Tony for the great trial attorney-turned-learned-professor-of-law, Mac for the gritty resolve of the private investigator whose street smarts and sometimes skewed view of life made him the most effective private eye Smith had ever known.
Buffolino married again, to a supportive and understanding woman named Alicia. Mac and Annabel often said Alicia had “tamed” Tony, which was true to an extent. That she’d managed to accomplish the feat without taking from him his spirit, or charming rough edges, was a tribute to her skill at wielding a whip, and a feather.
“I was going to give you a call, Mac, about this Latham case I’ve been reading about.”
“I beat you to it, Tony. How’s things?”
“Tip-top, Mac. I’m taking the high road these days. No more peeping in motel windows to nail a roving husband for some wife who’s probably in some other motel down the road. Strictly business investigations these days.”
“Glad to hear it,” Smith said, remembering that Tony was screening calls to avoid creditors. “How’s Alicia?”
“Good. Sometimes you get lucky. Drives me up the wall now and then, but she’s a woman. And a good driver, if you get my meaning.”
Smith smiled, asked, “What do you know about a colleague named James Perrone?”
“Colleague? Not even in the same league as me.”
“But you do know him?”
“Yeah. A lowlife. Wears funny clothes, always has his big hand out for a payoff.”
Wears funny clothes? Smith thought. Buffolino did not exactly define haute couture, although Alicia had managed to spruce him up a bit.
“A clean record?” Smith asked.
“I guess so. Nobody yanked his license I know of. Hey, Mac, you aren’t thinking of hiring that schmuck, are you? What’d I do to lose your business?”
Smith laughed. Alicia, who was Jewish, had obviously substituted a little Yiddish for Tony’s usual Italian slang. “No, Tony, I’m not looking to hire Perrone. I just want to know more about him.”
“Having to do with the Latham murder, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
“You need me, Mac?”
“I could use you to come up with hard information on Perrone. Maybe even to keep an eye on him for the next few days. But since you’re now taking the high road, as you put it, I suppose that would be out of the question.”
“Yeah, it’s not what I’ve been doing lately. Still, for you, I’d make an exception. I am busy. Up to my neck, you might say. But just for a few days? Shadow him? Yeah, I’ll do it. My rates went up, I should inform you. Inflation.”
“Of course. Can you get on it right away?”
“I’ll make a point of it. How’s the gorgeous redhead?”
“Annabel’s very well, thank you. She often asks for you.”
“Yeah, well, give her a big kiss for me. You’ll be around?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll hear from me.”
24
President Joseph Scott’s press secretary, Sanford Teller, fielded a question about Paul Latham at the daily White House press briefing:
“Some sources are saying the president knew when he nominated his friend Congressman Latham for secretary of state that the sexual harassment charge by a female employee was about to be leveled. Any truth to that?”
Teller, aptly named for a spokesman, showed his anger in his pale blue eyes. He cast them over the reporters in the briefing room and said, “Those so-called sources give your profession a bad name. The rumor that a female employee of Congressman Latham was going to bring such a charge is just that, a rumor. As for the president, I can tell you that as a close friend of Congressman Latham, he’s pretty upset—no, amend that—he’s pretty damn mad about the rumor. Those on the Hill who seek political gain from perpetuating this slander against Congressman Latham are not only prolonging his family’s lingering grief, they’re feeding the public’s already negative perception of politics. Until and unless the young lady in question comes forth, that question’s off the table here. Next? Helen?”
Mac Smith switched from C-SPAN to CNN, then to MSNBC, and finally turned off the set. Good for the president, he thought. Maybe if more people displayed outrage about rumors, they would diminish.
Senator Frank Connors, the Senate minority whip, had also watched the White House briefing. With him in his Russell Senate Office Building suite were his AA, Dennis Mackral, and Republican Congressman Mario Stassi, the ranking member on what used to be Paul Latham’s House International Relations Committee and its subcommittee on International Operations and Human Rights.
Connors said over Teller’s voice, “Since when does the president’s press secretary get to spout his personal opinions? I’d fire the son of a bitch if he did that to me.”
“It reflects the president’s views, Frank,” Stassi said.
“That comment of his was pointed at me,” said Connors, lighting a cigar. He looked at Mackral. “Am I right?”
“I’d say so,” Mackral replied. “The statement we issued yesterday was pretty blunt.”
“I wish you’d run it past me before it went out,” Stassi said. “The majority leaders are pressing for Jessup to take Latham’s committee chair. Bad enough we’re the minority without causing undue antagonism with the other side.”
“We’re still looking for her,” Mackral said.
“Why?” Stassi asked, not attempting to disguise his annoyance. “Latham’s dead. There’s not going to be any confirmation hearings. This sexual harassment thing should have been dropped the minute he died.”
“Dropped where?” Connors asked, his tone belligerent. “In my lap? We’re taking enough heat about it without folding our tent and slinking away. You just heard Teller—the president—hell, they’re out to paint us as irresponsible rumor mongers. They’ve turned it into their advantage—the heartless Republicans, spreading false accusations to derail a great nominee for State. I think it’s more important than ever to find Marge Edwards and get her to confirm the story.”
“Get her to?” Stassi said. “You have to get her to confirm it?”
“You know what I mean, Mario. Put her in front of a camera to tell everybody it happened. Latham played grab-ass with her. Then she says that now that the poor man is dead, there’s no need for her to go any further with it. Let him rest in peace. But at least confirm it, for Christ’s sake.”
“And you have no idea where she is?”
“We’re working on it.”
Mackral walked Stassi to the hallway. Stassi stopped, turned, looked hard at Mackral, and said, “I think this stinks, Dennis. It has all the aroma of a phony setup. We’re taking a lot of heat on the House side. Paul Latham was a leader. And he was one of us. If I were you, I’d push your boss to drop the whole thing before it really backfires.”
Mackral shrugged, said, “You know Frank, Mario. He won’t budge. Frankly, I agree with you. But there’s not a lot I can do, although I’ll keep trying.”
“Yeah, do that,” Stassi said. “You know what the first polls say? What my voters back home say? They don’t give a damn about some missing, neurotic woman claiming Paul Latham kissed her or whatever. They do care that somebody murdered him.”
“Of course,” Mackral said.
“Level with me, Dennis. How did Marge Edwards get to you and Frank, tell you that Paul harassed her?”
“I’m not at liberty to say at the moment,” Mackral responded. “But it was through a reliable source.”
Stassi guffawed.
Mackral shot him a California smile. “Trust me, Mario. The source was good.”
“I’m sure it was. And nobody cares, except Frank Connors. Look, Dennis, I butted heads with Paul every day. He ran the committee with an iron hand in a velvet glove. Do it his way or no way. Cross him, you kissed off your own constituent needs. But he was a hell of a man. A good and decent man. He would have made an excellent secretary of state. Sure, I would have gone along with the minority and tried to keep Scott from getting what he wanted. Not that I could have done much. Confirmations are a Senate prerogative. I would have made some speeches on the floor about his cozy relationship with Warren Brazier. Hell, as you know, the offensive against Paul’s confirmation was all scripted by our leadership. But this sexual charge. It’s scummy, Dennis. Ranks right up there with Dick Morris on the slime meter.”
As he spoke, Stassi became red in the face. He started to say something else, abandoned it, and walked away.
Mackral started back to the office, changed his mind, left the building, and went to a phone booth two blocks away. Perrone took the call. “What’s up?” he asked.
“We need to talk.”
“Come on over.”
“No. You know the rules. The Monocle. A half hour.”
“You know, Mackral, you’re taking up one hell of a lot of my time. Time’s money, they say. All I’ve got to sell is time.”
“Just be there, huh? There’ll be enough money to pay for your goddamn time.”
The Monocle, on D Street, N.E., between First and Second streets, just north of Capitol Hill, was within a few blocks of both the Capitol and the Supreme Court. Its location had made it a favorite hangout for years of staffers from both institutions, especially Senate aides. Slightly south of the Capitol was another venerable watering hole, Bullfeathers, which appealed more, for no apparent reason, to staffers from the House.
Mackral was there within minutes. Although he seldom frequented the Monocle, he was recognized as he entered by some people at the bar. After returning their greetings—slaps on the back, squeezes of the arm, and quick one-liners—he headed for a table at the rear of the room adjacent to the bar. He ordered a Diet Coke and waited, his eyes on the door.
He saw a man enter a few minutes later, obviously no staffer, but paid no further attention to him. Tony Buffolino took a seat at the ten-stool bar, sat back, and surveyed the room. “Nice place you got here,” he said to the bartender, a chain-smoking older gentleman wearing a red-and-white-striped shirt, red tie, and suspenders.
The bartender introduced himself in a southern accent as Robert. He looked over half-glasses and asked Buffolino what he wanted to drink.
“A beer. Rolling Rock.”
Tony sipped his beer and waited for Perrone to arrive. He’d followed him from Perrone’s office building on New Jersey Avenue to the Monocle’s parking lot, parked his silver Ford Taurus at the opposite end (things had improved since his rusty red Cadillac days, including his level of taste), and used other vehicles for cover on his way to the bar’s door. What was Perrone doing out there? he wondered. Had he changed his mind and taken off? Did he become aware he was being followed?
All around him at the bar, the conversation was politics. Nothing but politics. Political jokes. Political insight. Political BS, he thought. And enough cigars to call it a Te-Amo convention.
He was poised to go outside in search of Perrone when the bulky PI came through the door. Buffolino turned so that his face wasn’t visible. He and Perrone didn’t know each other well, but they had met on a few occasions. Perrone lumbered by him and joined a man at a nearby table. Buffolino shifted position so that he could keep an eye on them without revealing himself.
From Buffolino’s perspective, the two men knew each other but weren’t especially friendly. A visible tension manifested itself in rigid body language. If he hadn’t been afraid of being recognized by Perrone, he might have considered taking a table closer to them. But that was out of the question. Besides, from the way they were speaking to each other, it seemed to Buffolino that they were trying to keep their words private. An intrusion into their space might cause them to leave.
So he continued to sit at the bar, nursing his beer and wishing he’d learned to read lips.
Perrone and Mackral conferred for twenty minutes. Buffolino was on his second beer when Mackral left the table and headed for the front door. A young man seated next to Buffolino grabbed Mackral’s arm. “Hey, Dennis, how goes it?”
“Okay,” Mackral replied, a little angrily, from Buffolino’s perception. This was a guy who’d just had an unpleasant conversation and was anxious to get out of there.
The bar patron insisted upon telling Mackral a joke. He listened p
atiently, smiled—this guy’s either an actor or a displaced California beach bum, Buffolino decided—said good-bye, and was out the door.
“Dennis,” Buffolino said under his breath, noting the name on a cocktail napkin.
He returned his attention to the table, where Perrone was in the process of placing an order with a waiter. Buffolino wondered whether he should follow this Dennis, but ruled it out. Mac Smith had been specific: Follow Perrone.
Perrone had ordered a shrimp cocktail, steak, fries, and a side order of pasta.
“ ’Nother beer?” Robert, the bartender, asked in a deep baritone.
“Yeah. And some snacks. Peanuts, maybe?”
It took Perrone an hour to finish his meal. A third beer for Buffolino. He noticed that Perrone hadn’t paid when he left the table. Dennis must have picked up the tab.
Buffolino again turned so Perrone wouldn’t get a clear look at his face. The minute Perrone was out the door, Buffolino dropped money on the bar and stood. “Thanks, Robert,” he said.
The bartender nodded, drawled, “Y’all come back.”
“You should be on the radio,” Buffolino said, smiling and waving as he left.
He fell in behind Perrone, headed across the city in the direction of the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge. Traffic was heavy, the going slow. When he was a cop, Buffolino took pride in his driving ability when following someone, knowing how far he could hang back to avoid being noticed without losing his target.
Perrone, driving a sand-colored, almost new Dodge sedan, took them over the bridge into Virginia. He continued through the small cities on that side of the Potomac until turning at Route 66 West, which he stayed with until joining the Dulles Toll Road, settling into a steady sixty miles per hour. Buffolino adjusted his cruise control to remain a comfortable distance behind.
Eventually, Perrone left the highway at Exit 9, which Buffolino noticed put them on Sully Road. Five traffic lights later, Perrone turned left onto Waxpool Road; they were in the town of Ashburn. Buffolino followed Perrone to a residential street called Rising Sun Terrace, which wound through a development of single-family homes and town houses, creating the sort of typical planned community popular in Virginia and the greater Washington area.
Murder in the House Page 18
