Perrone pulled into a driveway. Buffolino stopped a block away. Perrone got out of his car, went to the front door of a town house, and rang the bell. A woman answered. Perrone and the woman talked for a minute. It appeared to Buffolino they were arguing. Then, Perrone entered the town house, and the door closed.
Buffolino waited a few minutes before slowly driving past the house. He noted the number on the door and the cross streets before coming around the block and resuming his watchful position.
He was aware that another woman had been peering at him through her front window. He didn’t need someone calling the police, or the enclave’s private security force to report a stranger in a car, so he drove away, toward a sales office he’d noticed when entering the complex.
He parked, bounded up the steps, and entered the model home, where a middle-aged woman sat behind a desk piled high with brochures.
“May I help you?” she asked pleasantly.
“I hope so,” he said, slipping into his best Detective Columbo hesitant imitation. “I’ve been thinking of buying something here in the development—I like it here. I work only a couple of miles away, but—”
“I’d be happy to show you some vacant models,” the woman said, standing.
“Well, actually, I’ve already looked at one that appeals to me.”
“You have? Who showed it to you?”
“The owner.”
“Ah, a current resident.”
“Yeah. Number eleven-eleven.”
“Eleven-eleven? I didn’t know Ms. Craig was thinking of selling. She’s only been here a year.”
“Something about a new job someplace. Out of the state. Ms. Craig …” He slapped the side of his head. “I never can remember her first name.”
“Maureen.”
“Of course. Maureen Craig. Sometimes I think I’m losing it, you know?”
“Yes, I do. My mother has Alzheimer’s. It’s such a terrible disease. Physically, she’s fine. But mentally …” She squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered.
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Thanks a lot.”
The woman opened her eyes and asked, “What did you want? We don’t get involved in private sales by current residents.”
Buffolino shrugged. “I guess I just wanted to get a feel for the community. Overall, you know. It’s nice here, huh?”
“Very nice. Peaceful. Good people. Very few children or animals.”
Not like the Congress, Buffolino thought.
He thanked her again and left, hoping she wouldn’t pick up the phone and call Maureen Craig, whoever she was. He found a different spot from where he could observe the car in the driveway of 1111, thankful Perrone hadn’t left while he was conning the sales agent. Now that he was back in position, he wished Perrone would get going. He was hungry; a search of the glove compartment confirmed he’d finished the last of the candy bars he kept in it as emergency rations.
Forty-five minutes later, Perrone came through the front door, down the steps and got into his car. He carried a manila envelope. The woman hadn’t come to the door with him, as far as Buffolino could see. Perrone retraced his route back to Washington, where he pulled into the underground parking garage of the apartment building in which he lived.
No sense hanging out here, Buffolino decided. He went to his office and called.
“Something to report?” Smith asked.
“Maybe. I just left Perrone at home. Been with him most of the day. He spent time in that bar on the Hill, the Monocle.”
“Pleasant place. Did you meet Robert?”
“The bartender? Yeah.”
“Fascinating man,” Smith said. “He’s been there over twenty years. Seen it all.”
“I bet he has. I’ve seen half of it. So anyway, Mac, Perrone sits with a guy at a table. They’re together maybe twenty minutes. Then this guy leaves, and Perrone stays almost an hour pigging out. Steak. Pasta. The works. This other guy evidently paid ’cause Perrone didn’t.”
“Good friend to have. Do you know who Perrone met with?”
“Just the name Dennis. Some guy called him that at the bar.”
“Dennis?” Smith ran the name through his memory. He came up with only one, Dennis Lambert, a respected senior staffer on the Hill with whom Smith had been friends for a number of years. “What did he look like, Tony?”
“Like Troy Donahue.”
“Who?”
“The actor. A California type. Blond hair all slicked back, big-time tan. A salon, I figure, considering the weather here.”
Dennis Mackral. Senator Frank Connors’s administrative assistant.
“Catch anything they said?” Smith asked.
“No. I followed Perrone after he finished his meal. Took me all the way out into Virginia. Ashburn. Know it?”
“I’ve heard of it. That’s pretty far. What did he do there?”
“Visited somebody named Maureen Craig.”
“Know anything about her?”
“No. Here’s her address.”
“You’ve been busy, Tony.”
“I got to be, Mac. Like I told you, I’m shoehorning this assignment in for you.”
“And I appreciate it. Can you spend another day on Perrone’s back?”
“Sure.”
“And I know you’ll keep good track of your hours.”
“Course I will. But you get the professional discount.”
“Still an extra two percent if in cash?”
“Better. Three.”
25
The minute Smith hung up, he called Jim Edwards in Indianapolis. No answer. Smith checked his watch. Marge’s father was probably still at work.
Next, he called Ruth Latham.
“Everybody holding up all right?” Smith asked.
“Yes, although we’ll feel a lot better when Paul’s murderer has been brought in. Have you heard anything new on that front?”
“Afraid not.”
“Marge Edwards?”
Smith sighed. “Still don’t know where she is.”
Should he tell her that Marge had tried to call him? He couldn’t come up with a compelling reason to do it, so he let his statement stand.
“How are the kids?”
“Good. Martin has decided to stay around a bit longer. That pleases me. Pris had to get back to her job in New York, which I understand.”
“And that vivacious teenager of yours?”
Ruth laughed. “Molly is doing just great. I’m taking her back to the page dorm this afternoon. She agrees with me that the sooner we all get back to living normal lives, at least to the extent that’s possible with Paul gone, the better off we’ll be. Some will say it’s irreverent. I don’t.”
“A grown-up philosophy.”
“Mac, there’s something I learned recently from Molly that I thought you might want to know.”
“What’s that?”
“Just before Paul was killed, Molly had lunch with Marge Edwards.”
“I know,” Mac said. “I spoke with Marge as she was leaving Paul’s office for that lunch.”
“Molly told me that when they parted on the street, Marge said she might be leaving the office.”
“Really? She’d promised Paul she’d keep an eye on Molly. No hint of thinking of leaving. Did she say why?”
“Something about another job. Molly was upset when she heard it. Ever since the rumor surfaced about Marge’s intention to accuse Paul, Molly’s reaction has been disbelief. She really liked Marge. Never bought it that Marge would even consider such a thing. I suppose that’s why Marge’s offhand comment about possibly leaving didn’t register with her until now.”
“Interesting, Ruth.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Oh, nothing major. I’ve been doing some checking of my own into Marge’s whereabouts.”
“You have?”
“Yup. I want to see this vague smear on Paul’s character stamped out. As quickly as poss
ible.”
“So do I. Thanks, Mac, for so many things.”
“Please give the family my best. Our best.”
“Get together soon?” she asked.
“Whenever you’re up to it.”
He called Virginia Information and asked for the number in Ashburn of Maureen Craig. It was unlisted.
Smith called Buffolino at his office. Alicia answered. After preliminary pleasantries—she was fine, Tony was driving her batty; they were thinking of going to Italy, or going bankrupt—she put him on the phone.
“Any chance of getting hold of this Maureen Craig’s number?” Smith asked. “It’s unlisted.”
Buffolino gave forth with a satisfied laugh. “I’m way ahead of you, my lawyer friend.” He reeled off the number, which Smith wrote down on a pad. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“You’ve done quite enough, my detective friend. Good hearing Alicia’s voice again. She says you’re driving her batty.”
“Yeah, I know. But what can you expect?”
“She’s a woman,” Smith said, wincing as he did.
“You got it, man. Ciao.”
Annabel arrived home as Smith was about to try Jim Edwards again.
“What’s new?” she asked after kicking off her shoes and settling on the small couch in the den.
He filled her in on what the day had offered so far.
“Tony’s amazing,” she said.
“He’s good, that’s for sure. Now I want to find out whether Marge ever mentioned a Maureen Craig to her father.”
He tried Edwards’s number again.
“Just walked through the door,” Edwards said, slightly out of breath. “Did you have a good trip home?”
“Fine, thank you. A question. Did Marge ever mention to you a woman by the name of Maureen Craig?”
“Maureen?”
Judging from his tone, he knew who she was.
“Why do you ask about her?”
“It seems that the private detective who visited you, James Perrone, knows Ms. Craig. I’m trying to establish a link between her and your daughter—if one exists.”
Smith waited.
“Jim?”
“Yes, I’m here. Surprised, that’s all.”
“Why?”
“I haven’t heard Maureen’s name for a very long time. I think about her, though.”
“Oh? What’s her relationship with you?”
“Maureen is my stepdaughter from my wife’s first marriage.”
“I see,” Mac said. “Were Marge and Maureen Craig close?”
“Closer than I was to Maureen. Had nothing but trouble with her. Headstrong and arrogant. No, I had little use for her, aside from respecting her as my wife’s daughter. I tried to be a good stepfather, but stepparenting is tough and she didn’t make it easy.”
“When’s the last time you spoke with her?”
“Oh, hard to say. Ten years? Twelve?”
“That’s a long time,” Smith said. “What about Marge? Has she stayed in touch with Maureen?”
“I believe so. Marge never talked much about it, but she did mention a few times—last time she was here, as a matter of fact—that she’d seen Maureen. Had dinner with her, something like that.”
“Do you think there’s any chance that Marge is staying with her half sister?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Think you could call Maureen and ask if she’s seen Marge?”
“I’d rather not. Would you?”
“I’ll consider it. Anything else you can tell me, Jim, about Maureen? Did she go to college? Does she work? Is she married?”
“She went to college. Somewhere in New York.”
“But she ended up in the Washington area. A job? A boyfriend or husband?”
“I just don’t know, Mac. Wish I could be more helpful.”
“You’ve been very helpful, Jim. Can we keep this conversation between us, at least for the moment?”
“Sure.”
“The press still camped at your door?”
“No. They’ve left. Bigger and better fish to fry.”
“Not better. But I’m glad they’re gone.”
“I take it Marge hasn’t tried to call you again.”
“No, she hasn’t.”
“I want you to know, Mac, that I haven’t mentioned to a soul that she did try to reach you.”
“I appreciate that. Well, Jim, I’ll let you pour yourself a drink and have some dinner. I’ll keep in touch.”
Annabel, who’d been listening, said after the conversation concluded, “What now?”
“I thought you’d help me decide that, Annie.”
“The man this character Perrone met was Dennis Mackral?”
“According to Tony. No, strike that. I came to that conclusion based upon Tony’s description of him. If it was Mackral, that raises the question of why he’d be meeting with a private detective, whose assignment seems to be to find Marge Edwards.”
“Senator Connors has never kept it a secret that he was against Paul becoming secretary of state,” said Annabel.
“He’s never been subtle about it,” Smith said. “Possible, I suppose—and troubling—that Connors’s office—Mackral—might have wanted Marge Edwards to testify at his hearings that Paul had sexually harassed her.”
“Yes. Troubling to even contemplate.”
“But Paul’s dead. Why bother now?”
“Maybe it’s a case of not being able to stop the snowball once it heads downhill. Or not wanting to,” said Annabel.
“Ummm. Or maybe that bullheaded Senator Connors wants to smear the administration, and Paul Latham, dead or alive.”
“This rumor that Marge Edwards was going to charge Paul with sexual harassment was reported by a single reporter, this—what was his name?”
“Harris. Something Harris.”
“Jules Harris. He breaks the story, basing it on the usual so-called reliable source. Everybody else picks up on it. Paul is murdered. Marge disappears. Now, Paul’s enemy in the Senate, Connors—his top aide—is working with a private detective to try and find Marge. Why?”
“Your analysis was as good as any,” Smith said. “Or mine.”
“Who was Harris’s source? Marge Edwards herself?”
“If so, why has she run? Guilt? Embarrassment?”
“Dennis Mackral, on Senator Frank Connors’s behalf—he might have leaked it to Harris to derail the confirmation.”
“What do you suggest I do next?” Smith asked.
“See if Marge Edwards is staying with Maureen Craig.”
“My guess is she’s not. Perrone was there. If she’s with her half sister, he wouldn’t have gone out to Indianapolis looking for her. By the way, Ruth says Marge told Molly just before Paul’s murder that Marge told her that she was thinking of leaving Paul’s office.”
“She give a reason?”
“Another job. Very vague.”
“It seems to me the next step is to find out more about Maureen Craig, and then approach her, see what she knows about Marge’s whereabouts.”
“Tony can help.”
“Who’s paying his bill?” Annabel asked.
“I am.”
“Big spender.”
“I’m getting the professional discount.”
“Tony Buffolino. With an O. What a guy.”
“In the meantime,” Smith said, “I’ve got to get back to the Russian project. It’s slipping away from me.”
“The trip there is getting closer.”
“I know. Bring something in for dinner?”
“I’ll call. Chinese?”
“Sounds good.”
Smith worked into the night, breaking only for the dinner delivered to the door. His wife secluded herself in the bedroom with a fat novel she’d started, but had put aside.
The phone rang at ten.
“Hello, Jessica. I was waiting for you to call.”
“Why?”
“Because you said
we’d talk again after you got back from Los Angeles.”
“Right. Can we talk?”
“I’m listening.”
“Not on the phone. Meet you for a drink?”
“Out of the question. Breakfast? You an early riser?”
“Not when I can help it. Sure, breakfast will be fine. Where?”
“Bread and Chocolate, on Twentieth? Seven-thirty?”
“Too busy.”
“Too public, you mean?”
“Uh-huh. Washington Harbor? Bagels on me. Seven-thirty in front of Tony and Joe’s?”
“Okay.”
Annabel appeared in the doorway. “Who was that?”
“Jessica Belle. I’m having breakfast with her.”
“Where?”
“Washington Harbor. Bagels. Her treat.”
“On the promenade?”
“Yes. All very hush-hush. She’s picked up the true CIA spirit.”
“Any idea what she wants to talk to you about this time?”
“Not a clue. Let’s catch the news.”
Paul Latham’s murder occupied a sizable portion of that evening’s newscast—two minutes amid five-second sound bites. The FBI was in charge of the ongoing investigation; all statements would come from the Bureau. There were no leads.
The Marge Edwards story was still alive but received brief mention—only that Latham’s alleged accuser was still missing.
But then the news anchor wrapped up the story with “Mackensie Smith, formerly a prominent Washington criminal lawyer, more recently a law professor at GW, and counsel to Paul Latham, returned today from meeting with the missing Marge Edwards’s father at his Indianapolis home. Smith had no comment on his trip.”
“I’ll be damned,” Smith said, leaning forward in his chair and slapping his hands on his thighs. “No comment? Nobody asked me anything. What kind of journalism is that?”
The phone rang.
“Hello,” Annabel said. Smith waved his hands. “No, he’s not here. Who’s calling? I don’t know. Yes, I expect him back tonight. Yes, of course. I’ll give him the message.”
The caller was the producer of the newscast they’d just watched.
The phone rang again. Annabel took another message from a reporter. And another.
“Go to the tape,” Smith said, pointing to the answering machine.
Murder in the House Page 19
