Murder on the Potomac

by Margaret Truman

“Where are we heading?” Smith asked, raising his voice over the wind’s whistle.

  “I figured maybe we’d go by Roosevelt Island. Interested?”

  Smith nodded. Somehow he knew that would be on their itinerary.

  Tony laid the chart on the console, and they rode without speaking until reaching the Key Bridge. The island was visible beyond it. He pointed to an area of water on the chart between the island and the mainland, spanned by the pedestrian bridge. Smith noticed that the section of the map under Tony’s index finger was blue. The deeper channel that ran the other side of the island was white. Numbers in the white section indicated considerable depth. FOUL was printed on the blue side.

  “Yeah, real shallow, Mac, but this baby rides high in the water. I think we can inch in close enough to take a look. Game?”

  “You’re the captain, my friend. But, remember, this isn’t your boat. It belongs to Tierney.”

  “Not to worry,” Tony said, placing his hand on the throttle and pulling it back to barely above Idle. With just enough rpms to maneuver, they drifted beneath the bridge. Buffolino gently turned right, his eyes shifting between the chart and the water ahead of them.

  “You sure this is a good idea?” Smith said.

  Buffolino didn’t answer; his attention was riveted on his task. As they continued their slow movement in the direction of the pedestrian walkway, Smith looked over the side. The water was brown, but he could see rocks just below its surface. He looked up. A log sat in their path. Buffolino killed the engine until the log drifted away, then advanced the throttle to its previous low setting.

  They eventually reached a spot thirty feet from shore. “Right about there they found her,” Buffolino said. He throttled back and allowed the Aquasport to respond to the river’s natural flow, which nudged them closer to shore.

  “How do you figure the body ended up there?” Smith asked.

  Buffolino shrugged. “I got to figure it drifted in.”

  “Why?”

  Buffolino looked at the pedestrian causeway. “It doesn’t make sense to me that anybody would bother hauling a dead body all the way across that thing—hell, look how long it is.”

  “Unless killer and victim walked here together,” Smith said.

  “I don’t think so, Mac. Besides, the gate’s locked at night. That’s what I read.”

  “I heard it hadn’t been locked that night.”

  “Yeah, but who would know that except the park ranger? Nah. Doesn’t add up.”

  Smith observed the movement of the boat. “If the body were dumped in the water, it would move the way we are, toward shore. Right?”

  Buffolino nodded.

  Smith grunted and said, “From everything I’ve read, she was pretty well covered with debris. But she wasn’t murdered many hours before she was discovered.”

  Buffolino looked back in the direction from which they’d come. “They’ve done a pretty good job of cleaning up this river, Mac. They got rid of the PCBs, ABCs, whatever the hell those things are called. The fishing’s pretty good now. But the water runs twenty miles down from Great Falls and picks up lots of debris.” He returned his attention to the shoreline. “I don’t figure it would take more than a couple of hours to get covered up pretty good with twigs and leaves and stuff the yahoos toss in.”

  Smith didn’t look convinced.

  “Tell you what,” Tony said. He went to the rear of the boat and untied an orange plastic bumper used to keep the craft from hitting the dock.

  “What are you going to do with that?” Smith asked.

  “Experiment.” Buffolino tossed the bumper out onto the water, and both men watched it begin to drift. It was headed, slowly, toward shore. “Pretty good aim, huh?” Buffolino said. “Looks like it’ll land right where the body was.”

  Smith nodded.

  “Here’s what we do,” Buffolino said. “We get out of here, go up through the channel, and grab some lunch. Got a preference? There’s good seafood joints up around Maine and Seventh. You know. What’s your pleasure?”

  “Your call,” Smith answered. “I’ve eaten in all of them.”

  Buffolino maneuvered the Aquasport so that its direction was now reversed and gave the engine a boost. “Lunch should take us a couple hours,” he said. “By the time we get back, we’ll see whether that bumper’s got a ton a’ garbage on it.”

  Over two flounder specials at Hogate’s, Smith brought up Buffolino’s assignment. “The Tierney job going well?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, who killed Pauline Juris?”

  Buffolino shook his head. “Could have been anybody. Somebody she worked with. Maybe somebody she was sleeping with. Somebody out of her past. Could even be somebody in Tierney’s family.”

  “How well have you gotten to know the family?”

  “Well enough. More tension in that house than in my own. I pick up on things just by hanging around. I got big ears, Mac. Mr. and Mrs. Tierney do not engage in what you would call marriage bliss. At each other’s throats all the time. And then there’s the kids. They’re not kids anymore, but they are their—kids. The daughter, Suzanne, she’s whack-a-ding-hoy.”

  Smith’s eyebrows went up.

  “Flaky,” Buffolino explained.

  “You’ve been taking Chinese lessons?” Smith asked, laughing.

  “Nah. Just a word I heard someplace. She’s an actress, and you know how they are. The artsy-craftsy crowd. Very dramatic, high-strung. Takes acting lessons up in New York, works for some booking agent in D.C. I know one thing. She’s no fan of her old man.”

  “What about her relationship with her mother?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Chip Tierney? How does he get along with the rest of the group?”

  “Depends on who you’re talking about. He and his father are close. Real close. The kid is like a clone of the old man. Mr. T. can do no wrong in Chip’s eyes. Even treats his mother the way the old man does. Scorn. No patience with her.”

  “An unhappy woman,” Smith said.

  “Very unhappy. They treat the daughter, Suzanne, the same way. Mr. Tierney is unhappy with her, that means Chip is unhappy with her.”

  “Sun Ben?”

  “He and Chip seem to hit it off okay. Chip’s one of those guys should be in politics. Or front a fancy restaurant. Real pleasant, but I read it as all show. What you see ain’t necessarily what you get.”

  Smith sipped his coffee. “While you’re doing psychological profiles, give me your read on Sun Ben.”

  “Strange cat, but he’s got to be different from the rest of them. Hell, he’s Chinese.”

  “You noticed.”

  “I miss nothing, Sherlock. He’s cold, Mac. Never smiles. Not friendly.” Buffolino leaned forward and motioned for Smith to do the same. He said in a stage whisper, “I ran some checks on him, too.”

  “Too? Who else did you run checks on?”

  “Everybody.”

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause I wanted to get a handle on them.”

  “Does Tierney know?”

  “No.”

  “You’re overstepping your boundaries, Tony.”

  “Come on, Mac. Get real. I like to know the people I’m protecting. Am I right?” Smith said nothing. Buffolino continued. “Mr. Sun Ben Cheong-Tierney is a high roller in Atlantic City.”

  “I heard he gambled.”

  Buffolino laughed softly. “I heard he loses.”

  “So?”

  “He must be paid big bucks by Sam Tankloff.”

  “I assume so. He’s considered a financial genius. Did you know he’s teaching a course at GW?”

  “Yeah. But that’s not exactly big bucks.”

  “What else did you find out about him?”

  “That’s about it—so far. Except a hunch. I think he and his sister, Suzanne, might be getting it on.”

  Smith’s expression was skeptical.

  Buffolino nodded, smiling. “Just a hunch, Mac. I’ve never
seen them in the sack, but I have this feeling.”

  They argued over the check. Buffolino won, insisting he owed Smith for having gotten him the lucrative assignment with Wendell Tierney. They returned to the Aquasport, which was docked just outside the restaurant, and headed back.

  They came around the channel side of the island and went to where Tony had released the bumper. He’d been right. There was considerable debris clinging to it. Tony retrieved it with a boathook and, without striking the rocks that kept Mac on edge, returned safely to the Tierney dock.

  “Thank you for a pleasant day on the water, Tony. You didn’t have to buy lunch.”

  Buffolino shrugged and grinned. “Hey, for you, no limit. Anything else I can do for you?”

  “Sure. Deliver those love letters Wendell supposedly wrote to Pauline Juris.”

  “Deliver?”

  Smith laughed. “Just a little fantasy of mine,” he said. “Simple curiosity. I’d love to know what they really said.”

  As they ascended the wooden stairs to the front of the house, Smith said, “Watch yourself, Tony.”

  “How so?”

  “You’ve been hired to protect Tierney and his family, not to investigate Pauline Juris’s murder. I know it’s almost automatic for you, after your years on the force, but I’d go easy checking into the background of anyone in the family.”

  “I suppose you’re right, Mac. But like I said, I like to know who I’m protecting. But, yeah, I’ll go easy. You coming inside?”

  “No. Things to do. Thanks again. Keep in touch. And keep your head.”

  18

  Simultaneously

  Mac Smith had no sooner left the house for his cruising date with Tony Buffolino than the phone rang in his study. The machine took the message:

  In case you try to reach me, I’m on my way to an eleven o’clock special meeting of the finance committee at the museum. I got a call from Don Farley. No idea what it’s about, but it sounds important. Call you later. Love you.

  Annabel arrived at the National Building Museum at 10:45 and browsed the book and gift shop just off the lobby. As she admired architecturally significant puzzles and games, she heard high heels clicking outside. She looked at the open door as Detective Darcy Eikenberg walked by.

  Annabel went to the lobby and saw Eikenberg turn left and disappear up a set of stairs. She followed, her crepe-soled shoes silently striking the floor. She reached the first landing. Eikenberg entered the executive offices. Annabel looked at her watch. Time to get to the meeting.

  Others were seated at a small round table, in what had once been the pension commissioner’s suite, when Annabel entered. She poured herself coffee from a service in a corner and joined Hazel Best-Mason, Sam Tankloff, and three other members of the committee. Donald Farley chaired it. Farley, well into his seventies, was energetic and alert. Slender and fit, his face a series of briery angles and lines, he owned radio stations in Maryland and West Virginia. He got to the point. “The reason for calling this meeting is anything but pleasant,” he said. “Frankly, Hazel and I had hoped we could resolve it quietly without involving the committee. It initially seemed to be nothing more than a bookkeeping error, an administrative snarl. But it now appears that the problem is greater than that.”

  Expressions on the faces of other committee members indicated they were as much in the dark as Annabel. “I think it best if Hazel lays out the dimensions of this problem for us,” Farley said.

  Best-Mason, dressed in a coffee-colored suit with subtle white pinstripe, frilly off-white blouse that could have been created of gardenias, and her usual assortment of rings, necklaces, and earrings, opened a file folder, studied it, then took in each person. “Money is missing from the museum,” she said.

  Annabel’s immediate thought went to Eikenberg. Was that why she was there that morning? She hoped not. You didn’t have to be trained in public relations to know that such matters were best handled internally. A nonprofit institution tainted by financial scandal invariably finds it more difficult to raise funds, at least in the short run.

  “How much is missing?” a board member asked.

  Hazel referred to her notes. “To date, approximately a hundred and eighty thousand dollars.”

  Another board member whistled.

  “You said the money was missing,” Annabel said. “Was it stolen?”

  “That’s what I’m focusing on at the moment,” the controller said.

  Tankloff met Annabel’s eyes and shook his head sadly. “It appears Pauline might have been responsible,” he said.

  “Pauline Juris?” Annabel said. “That’s shocking.” She waited a beat before adding, “And unfortunate.”

  “Extremely,” Farley said.

  “I mean it’s unfortunate because she’s dead. Not here to defend herself.”

  “I don’t think that’s the issue,” Best-Mason said sharply. “The important thing is to determine the extent of the theft and how it was accomplished. Then we can decide whether to attempt to recover any or all of it.”

  “Recover?” Tankloff said. “Wendell is Pauline’s executor. He told me she had virtually nothing in her bank accounts at the time of her death.”

  “Which doesn’t mean she didn’t have bank accounts not in her name,” said Best-Mason.

  “What proof do we have that Pauline stole the money?” Annabel asked.

  “These,” Best-Mason responded, overtly annoyed at Annabel’s questioning. She slid a stack of vouchers across the table, and Annabel flipped through them. They were receipts for cash disbursements, each signed by Pauline Juris.

  “What dismays me is that she had free access to this account,” said Farley to Best-Mason. “No check-and-balance, no oversight procedure.”

  “Are you accusing me of negligence?” the controller asked.

  Farley smiled. His smile was sweet, but his meaning was otherwise. “Of course not. But it does seem that allowing easy access to such sums of money represents a lapse in our accounting procedures.”

  His words angered Hazel. She responded coldly. “I suggest you talk to Wendell Tierney about that. The fund Pauline drew from was established by him personally. Most of it came from cash receipts from the bookstore and gift shop, and from tours. Only he and Pauline had authority to access it. I pointed out to him that it was an unusual arrangement. I suggested the money not be segregated into a separate account but be included in the general revenue fund. But he insisted. Talk to him, Donald.”

  Farley was taken aback by Hazel’s clipped defense. He managed, “Yes, I will.”

  The door opened, and museum director Joe Chester stepped into the room. As he did, and before he could close the door behind him, Annabel heard the click-click-click of high heels. The tall, graceful figure glided by.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Chester said, not sounding as though he meant it. “I was with a detective.”

  “About this?” Tankloff asked, his face reflecting displeasure.

  “This? Oh, you mean the missing funds. No. She talked to me about Pauline’s murder. It’s the third time.” He pulled up a chair.

  “Anything new?” Tankloff asked.

  “No,” Chester said, “but I wish they’d solve the damn thing. I’m beginning to feel like a suspect. Someone told the detective that Pauline and I didn’t get along. You know that’s not true.”

  No one replied. It was common knowledge that Chester and Wendell Tierney and Pauline were not members of a mutual-admiration society. It was also known that while Tierney disliked the young man, he appreciated his talents, even coming to his defense on occasion when other board members questioned Chester’s actions.

  Chester sank low in his chair. “And now this,” he said. “How far have you gotten with your audit?” he asked Best-Mason.

  “Far enough to know the funds are missing, and that they were taken by Pauline.”

  Annabel spread her hands in the air. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t understand. Pauline could simply sign a vouche
r for any amount of cash she wished and walk out with it?”

  “Some system, huh?” Chester grumbled.

  Annabel added, “And she didn’t have to indicate to anyone what she intended to do with it?”

  “Sometimes she did, sometimes she didn’t,” Best-Mason replied. “She usually said she was drawing money to make cash payments to suppliers. She’d scribble something on the vouchers about who was supposedly getting paid.” The vouchers still sat in front of Annabel. She thumbed through them again and saw what looked like hieroglyphics—a few letters of the alphabet followed by the word “services.”

  “Isn’t it unusual to pay bills in cash?” Annabel asked.

  Best-Mason sighed. “I don’t think this will help us get to the bottom of it,” she said curtly. “Frankly, I would have preferred to resolve this on my own without the need for a meeting. But Donald overruled me.”

  Farley said quickly, “I think it’s of sufficient magnitude for the board to be involved.”

  Tankloff concurred. “My only concern is that the more people who know about it, the greater the chance of leaks to the outside. We don’t need some creative reporter linking the missing funds with Pauline’s murder. If that happens, it will be all over the front page and on the nightly news.”

  Annabel was thinking the same thing, but her concern was not publicity. Why shouldn’t the possibility be raised that the missing funds could be linked to Pauline’s murder? Maybe the motive for killing her had to do with the funds—and whoever they went to.

  “And there’s a question of bringing criminal charges if someone else was involved with Pauline,” Farley said.

  “I have to leave,” Tankloff said. “I have to go to another important meeting downtown. My suggestion is that Hazel be allowed to pursue this quietly, using her own considerable expertise. Unless there is a compelling need to know, I suggest we not meet again. People who contribute money to this institution won’t be happy hearing that one of its own walked away with some of it.”

  “I second that motion,” Joe Chester said.

  Tankloff was not his usual polite self that day. He walked from the room without another word and closed the door with more force than necessary, as if the door were the final vote.