Murder on the Potomac

by Margaret Truman

  “Are we adjourning?” a board member asked.

  “We might as well,” Farley said. “Unless anyone has something else to offer.”

  No one did. The meeting was over.

  Annabel and Farley were left alone in the suite. He said, “Sorry your early days on the committee involve this sort of thing.”

  “That’s all right, Don. I just feel terrible that this has happened to the museum. Mind if I ask something that’s probably none of my business?”

  “Of course not. If it has to do with the museum and the finance committee, it is your business.”

  “If this thing happened the way Hazel says it did—Pauline drawing cash from the museum for her own use but with Wendell’s blessing—it means that he bears considerable responsibility.”

  “You’re right, of course. I don’t know how many boards you’ve served on, Annabel, but—”

  “One,” she said, smiling. “This one.”

  He returned her smile as he explained. “Some boards are relatively balanced. No individual dominates policy and decision making. With others, there is a dominant force. That’s very much the case with Wendell. Don’t misunderstand. Besides being an extremely forceful leader, he has almost single-handedly turned the fortunes of this museum around. He not only has the contacts from which to generate considerable money, he’s always been willing to use them. I remember when he announced the creation of the special fund. I objected. So did others. But he brushed our objections aside. I can’t even remember the reasons he gave, but as you know, he can be, ah, extremely persuasive. Our revenues have increased twofold since he assumed the chairmanship. Who were we to argue over a fund that amounted to only a few thousand dollars?”

  “A few thousand dollars? Hazel said the theft amounted to almost two hundred thousand.”

  “That’s right. But when the fund was established, it didn’t amount to much. Increasingly large amounts of money were eventually funneled into it. I didn’t even know how large it had grown until this happened. I suppose that makes me responsible, too.”

  “Well, I just wish it hadn’t happened, which is as weak and innocuous a comment as I can come up with at the moment. If there’s anything I can do, please call.”

  “I certainly will, Annabel. And, as Sam emphasized, we’ve got to keep this in-house.”

  “I understand.”

  But Annabel had not said she would.

  19

  That Night

  For those who didn’t know better, Darcy Eikenberg and Nick Penna might have been a happily married couple. They once were. Now they had dinner together at least once a month, and there were occasional long weekends at the Maryland shore, or the Homestead in Hot Springs. A modern, civilized divorce, the sociologists would term it. A “relationship,” others might say. For them, it just seemed natural.

  This night they met for dinner at a Greek restaurant, Mykonos, on K Street NW. Usually, Darcy would meet Nick wearing whatever she’d worn that day to work. But she’d left the MPD earlier than usual and had run home to change into peach crinkle-cotton pants, an oversized raspberry blouse, and an oyster-white sweater vest. He wore a trim gray suit and a pale green-and-red-striped shirt with white collar. It was Darcy’s favorite type of shirt; she’d bought a number of them for him over the years. “How’s things at the head-count factory?” she asked pleasantly.

  “As bureaucratic as ever. The political pressure is on again to beef up the count in certain areas so they can redistrict. But we’re remaining true to our mission.” He laughed softly. “I’ve been offered an interesting assignment.”

  She touched his hand. “That’s wonderful, Nick. Another promotion?”

  “Not exactly. They want an updated history of the bureau written. I might head up the research.”

  She sat back and looked impressed. “I’m impressed,” she said. “I never should have left you.”

  “You didn’t leave me. We left each other. A draw. Remember?”

  She leaned forward and smiled warmly. “Yes, I remember.”

  “It’s an interesting history, Darcy. Our first census was in 1790. Of course, taking a census goes back a lot further than that, as far as 3800 B.C. in Babylonia. They used it to determine who should pay taxes.” He stopped, smiled, and said, “All of which pales when compared to the life of a homicide detective. How are things at MPD?”

  “Insanely busy. I was afraid I might have to cancel tonight. But then I realized it’s been three weeks since we had dinner. That’s too long. How’s your love life, Nick? Are you seeing anyone?”

  “Of course, but no one special. You?”

  “Ah, the joys of bachelorhood in the nation’s capital. Ten women to every man.”

  “Remember, you’re talking to a big shot in the Census Bureau. You have your numbers wrong.”

  “Nine-to-one? Me? I get by.”

  His laugh was knowing and wicked. “Who’s the lucky man this week?”

  “It just so happens there isn’t anyone in my life these days, although I have been spending time with a fascinating gentleman.”

  “A cop?”

  “An attorney. And professor.”

  The words spilled immediately out of his mouth. “Mackensie Smith.”

  Her eyes opened in mock shock. “How rumors spread in this town.”

  “Come on, Darcy, give me a break. A lawyer and professor? You’ve been talking about him since you took his course at GW.”

  “It was that bad?” He didn’t reply. “I mean, my infatuation with him was that obvious?”

  “All over your sleeve.”

  “He was a good teacher.” Her smile indicated she was only letting half the cat out of the bag.

  Nick looked up at the ceiling as though retrieving distant memories. “ ‘Handsome.’ ‘Urbane,’ ” he said. “You’d just learned the word ‘urbane’ and used it a lot when referring to Smith.” His eyes went up again. “ ‘Ruggedly handsome.’ ‘Brilliant.’ ‘Sensitive.’ ‘Worldly’—”

  “Was I that obvious?”

  “Worse than that,” he said. “Hey, Smith is married.”

  “News from the front. I know he’s married.”

  “And that doesn’t bother you?”

  “I didn’t say we were sleeping together, Nick. As I recall, I said I was spending time with him lately.”

  “On the Juris case.”

  “Exactly. He’s—he’s Wendell Tierney’s confidant and attorney.”

  “I’ve met Smith’s wife. Her name is Annabel.”

  “Oh?”

  “I needed a gift for a friend’s birthday. Actually, a woman I was seeing. She’s crazy about pre-Columbian art, and I stopped in this gallery in Georgetown to see if I could pick up something inexpensive. No luck there. Everything is just slightly below the national debt. But Annabel Smith owns the gallery, and we got talking. Lovely lady. A knockout.”

  “In a matronly way.”

  He’d just taken a sip of wine. Her comment caused him to laugh; it took all his lip strength to keep the wine from splattering on the table. “ ‘Matronly’? You call that matronly?”

  “Prefer ‘middle-aged’?”

  “Like us.”

  “Speak for yourself. I’m not there yet.”

  They ordered: imam baldi for two—slices of eggplant baked to almost the melting point and topped with tomato, pine nuts, garlic, and onions.

  Penna’s face turned serious. “Mind some advice from somebody who cares about you, Darcy?”

  “Depends. If you’re going to lay moral judgments on me, keep them to yourself.”

  “Why would you think I’d be passing moral judgment? You are romantically involved with Smith, aren’t you?”

  She thought for a moment. “No. Would I like to be? Definitely.”

  “Is he interested in you?”

  “Don’t say it as though it’s inconceivable. As a matter of fact, I think he is. He’s been married for three or four years. That’s a long time for a man like Mackensie Sm
ith. He’s the restless type, never content with something—someone—for very long. That’s one of the things I admire most about him, Nick. He was this city’s most famous and successful criminal attorney but gave it up to teach law. That takes guts.”

  “So how come you didn’t think I had guts when I gave up dreams of owning my own business to take a job with the government?”

  “I guess I mean character. Anyhow, you did it backward. If you’d started your own business and then decided to become a bureaucrat, I would have said that took guts. No matter. Mac Smith excites me. Is there something wrong with a woman being excited by a man?”

  “Depends upon the man. You’re making a mistake.”

  “And you have just issued a moral judgment.”

  They got off the subject and back on their careers. Penna had little to report. But she had stories to tell because she was a cop. That was one thing she loved about being around cops. They might hate you, but they always had a story to tell.

  “Any closer to solving the Juris murder?” he asked.

  “Maybe, maybe no.”

  “How juicy were those letters I read about?”

  “The ones from Wendell Tierney to Pauline Juris? Not juicy at all. But there’s been a new development with them.” He raised his eyebrows, waiting for more. She said, “But I can’t discuss it. We interviewed Juris’s former husband again, the surgeon from New York.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s looking more like a suspect every day.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “No. I mean, I care to, but I can’t. Juris lived a more interesting life than I was initially led to believe.”

  “You like that, don’t you? People who live interesting lives.”

  “Of course.”

  “How was she interesting? I mean, beyond the normal.”

  “Had a dark side like we all do. Only hers was darker. Keep a secret?”

  “Of course. I work for the government.”

  “I think Ms. Juris might have been an embezzler.”

  “That does make her interesting. Who’d she embezzle from, her boss, Tierney?”

  “No. From the National Building Museum, where Tierney is chairman of the board. Just a rumor I picked up today. Does that qualify as ‘juicy’?”

  He nodded. He enjoyed listening to his former wife talk about her career as a police officer. But at these times their decision to separate and divorce was reinforced for him. She loved, in fact had a need for, action and intrigue, things he was incapable of providing. But he liked her tales of life outside the mundane, routinized life he led. Maybe he enjoyed gossip and intrigue more than he was willing to admit.

  And she knew he enjoyed hearing her tales of life in Washington, her life, anyhow, stories of murder and rape and incest and fraud and political skulduggery. If he’d showed such interest when they were married, they might still be together, she sometimes mused. But that thought was always fleeting. They belonged to that increasing tribe of odd couples, better friends than spouses.

  Over cups of strong coffee, and galaktobouriko for dessert—custard in the delicate pastry called phyllo leaves—she said, “The Juris case becomes thicker every day. Juris might have embezzled funds from the museum. And Tierney’s best friend, the investment banker Tankloff, Sam Tankloff—who’s also Tierney’s biggest source of capital—could come up for indictment any day.”

  “Who did he screw?” Penna asked.

  “I don’t know yet. Scuttlebutt out of Justice. Financial fraud, maybe IRS trouble. But here they are, some of D.C.’s rich and mighty writing love letters to secretaries, stealing money from public institutions, and defrauding each other.” She smacked her lips. “I love it!”

  He had been right. But his suggestion that they spend the night together was wrong. She declined. She was tired and had to be up early. They brushed lips outside the restaurant, like cousins. Then she threw her arms around him and kissed him hard. “Call me?” she said, looking at him in a manner that said, Do it! She didn’t want him to go. She never wanted an evening spent together to end. The marriage, yes. But not these occasional evenings when she talked and he listened. Nick was the best listener in her life. And that was important, after all. What good were all the intriguing stories out of her life if there was no one to tell them to?

  “Sure, Darcy. I’ll call. I always do. And, Darcy. Stay away from married men. There’s no future in it. No moral judgment intended.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” she said. “That’s what I like about you, Nick. Always a fountain of clear, conservative thinking.”

  “You should have taken me up on my offer,” Nick said. He’d been asleep when she called at one; they’d been talking for almost an hour.

  “I know. I miss you.”

  “Loneliness passes, Darce.”

  “I know. I wish I still smoked. I only get lonely once in a while. Been months since I woke you up.”

  “It’s okay. Sure you don’t want me to come over? I will.”

  “Thanks, no. I just needed to talk, Nick. Didn’t know who else to talk to.”

  He laughed. “Didn’t know anybody else who wouldn’t mind being woken up in the middle of the night Get some sleep, lady.”

  “Yes, sir. Good night.”

  20

  The Following Morning

  Over bowls of blueberries, raspberries, and fashionable high-fiber cereal, Mac and Annabel discussed the previous day.

  “I agree with you,” Mac said. “The missing money could have bearing upon Pauline’s murder. Then again, it might be pure coincidence, mean nothing. And they’re convicting her without a trial.”

  Annabel took the last spoonful before saying, “Sam said Pauline died without funds to speak of. Wendell was the executor.”

  Smith nodded. “Does he know about the missing money?”

  “I assume he does. After all, he’s chairman.”

  “Which means he might be the last to know. Could be embarrassing to the museum if it gets out.”

  “That was Sam’s concern. Oh, I forgot to mention that Ms. Eikenberg was there while the meeting was going on.”

  “There? Because of the missing funds?”

  “Not according to Joe Chester. He came into the meeting late, said she’d been questioning him again about the murder.”

  “Hmmm,” Smith said, rinsing the empty bowls in the sink. “What’s on your agenda today?” he asked over the noise of running water.

  “Meetings,” Annabel said.

  “More? At the museum? You’re busier than the National Security Council.”

  “You mean that shadowy bunch who keeps the president secure in his job? And democracy safe until our next election? No. Has to do with my trip to San Francisco.”

  Smith turned off the faucet. “Your trip to San Francisco? When?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Weekend after next The Smithsonian and Dumbarton Oaks are cosponsoring a conference out there on pre-Columbian art. Private collectors and small museums from around the country will be attending. Someone on Dumbarton’s Harvard Advisory Committee called and invited me. I’m excited.”

  “I can imagine. How long will you be gone?”

  “Four days. Leaving Friday night, back Wednesday. I’m sorry if I forgot to mention it. I thought I had.”

  “You probably did. Shame your trip isn’t this weekend. A good excuse to skip Tri-S’s extravaganza.”

  Annabel laughed. “Sorry I can’t provide that for you. Lighten up, Mac. You might even enjoy it.”

  “That’s always a possibility.”

  The re-creation of the murder of Philip Barton Key by Congressman Don Sickles was to be presented on Saturday in Lafayette Park, across from the White House. Later that evening, a black-tie dinner-dance would be held at the National Building Museum. Smith would have preferred to avoid the theatrical production and attend only the dinner, but Annabel had pointed out that it was b
ad form, like attending a wedding reception but skipping the ceremony.

  “You?”

  “Me what?”

  “What are you doing today?”

  “Same thing you’re doing, attending meetings. The dean has been pushing for a curriculum change, and we’re huddling about it. I don’t like what he’s suggesting, but he is the dean. My boss. And I am a good soldier.”

  “But only after you make your objections known in your usual loquacious style.”

  “Wrong word,” Smith said. “I prefer to think I persuade through a minimum of carefully chosen words. But no matter. Yes, the dean will know my thoughts.”

  It was a day of meetings all over town.

  Darcy Eikenberg faced four of them at MPD Headquarters at 300 Indiana Avenue.

  She was late for the first because she’d spent more time than planned interviewing employees of Tierney Development Corporation. Her tardy arrival didn’t set well with the head of the Forensic Unit, the crusty veteran Wally Zenger. He said as she came through the door, “I hate to break the news, Darcy, but the Juris case isn’t the only one we’re working on.”

  Eikenberg brushed off his comment and took a chair at the table. In the middle of it was a fourteen-by-twelve black typewriter case. “Canon” was printed on its cover. Inside was a Typestar 6 battery-powered typewriter that used the ink-jet principle of printing.

  “Well?” Eikenberg asked Zenger.

  “No doubt about it. The letters found in her apartment were typed on this thing.”

  “On this type of machine, or this one specifically?” Eikenberg asked.

  Zenger raised large, bushy eyebrows and muttered something under his breath. He fixed her across the table and said, “If I say the letters were typed on this typewriter, I mean this typewriter. We bought four others. They all look pretty much alike except the T and M tend to bleed a little on this one. The others didn’t On top of that, this unit is set to the same specifications as the letters, margins left and right, top and bottom. It’s the one.”

  “Okay,” Eikenberg said, taking in faces around the table, including two detectives who’d produced the typewriter and who were assigned to Eikenberg on the Juris case, and three cops from Forensics. She said to the detectives, “Get back to the National Building Museum and find out who had access to this typewriter and where it was kept most of the time.”