Murder on the Potomac

by Margaret Truman

  Eikenberg started to respond, but Horton kept talking. “We’ve got the scum of the earth roaming these streets at night raping and mugging and murdering, and we end up supplying a hundred cops tomorrow to keep order while these head cases put on an amateur play and glorify a murder that happened long ago. Maybe some whack-job decides it would be fun to help re-create old murders, only using real bullets.” He muttered an obscenity under his breath, then said loudly, “The pension can’t come fast enough. Go on, get moving before this case gets old enough to be history.”

  27

  An Hour Later

  It was drizzling when Smith left for the Potomac Palisades and Wendell Tierney’s home. By the time he arrived, it had turned to a monotonous rain.

  Across the entrance to the estate was an unmarked green sedan. A uniformed guard stood next to it.

  Smith rolled down his window: “I have an appointment with Mr. Tierney.”

  “Name?”

  “Mackensie Smith.”

  The guard consulted a slip of paper. “Okay. You’re cleared.”

  “You from Tony Buffolino’s agency?” Smith asked.

  “Yup.” He climbed into his vehicle and backed up enough for Mac to pass.

  Another security man stood at the rear entrance to the house. Smith recognized him from the last time he was there, another of Tony’s men. He was waved in and had no sooner stepped into the foyer when Tierney came through the kitchen to greet him. “Hello, Mac,” he said. “As usual, my good friend heeds the call. A friendly face. Exactly what I need this morning.”

  “I imagine you do from what I heard on TV. I see Tony has beefed up security around here. Expecting a frontal attack?”

  “Nothing would surprise me,” Tierney replied. He looked haggard, as though he hadn’t slept much, and was visibly nervous; a tic in his right eye was new to Smith. “I’ve been up all night,” he said. “It may sound paranoid having more security people around, but the way things have been going lately, I could believe there’s one hell of a conspiracy against me and my family.”

  “I hope you’re wrong.”

  “Come on, let’s go upstairs,” Tierney said. “I’m reasonably certain we can be alone there.” He motioned Smith to a high-back red leather chair and sat in a shorter version of it. “I can’t believe this thing with Sun Ben,” he said. “It’s got to be a setup, a goddamn setup.”

  “Why would the government set up Sun Ben?”

  “To get at me,” Tierney said without hesitation.

  “But why?” Smith asked. “To what end?”

  The tenor of Tierney’s laugh accused Smith of being naive. “You’ve been around this town long enough, Mac, to know that when somebody with clout wants to get somebody else, the government’s always there to do their bidding provided there’s enough money or votes to spread around. Sun Ben involved in money laundering? Tax evasion? Nonsense. I know all about his weakness, that damn baccarat table in Atlantic City and Vegas. So he loses once in a while. Who doesn’t?”

  Smith didn’t respond.

  “Sun Ben is a young man who loves this country and what it’s done for him. He loves this family and what it’s done for him.”

  Smith chewed his cheek. “They arrested him as he was returning from the Caymans. Did he maintain bank accounts there?”

  “Sure. For Sam’s benefit.”

  “Tankloff? Is he involved in this?”

  “I don’t know, but he should be. If Sun Ben had accounts there, it was to accommodate Sam. Sam isn’t quite the straight shooter he comes off as, Mac. He’s no different than any other guy who makes a bundle and looks for ways to keep it. That’s fine. I’ve done it myself. But if he used Sun Ben to take the fall, I draw the line.”

  Smith’s face said nothing.

  Tierney sat back and crossed his legs, a statesman poised to proclaim significant truths to a historian. “I know there are some people you can trust in this world. I also know that when the sun goes down and we retreat into our dark private lives, we aren’t always what we’ve been in the daylight. Follow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sun Ben is aggressive and ambitious. Very American. He might have made mistakes in judgment. Youth. That’s what youth is for, to take great leaps and fall on your face.”

  “Has he fallen on his face this time?”

  Tierney started to answer, stopped, shook his head, and smiled. “Trust Mackensie Smith to ask the right questions. Maybe he has. Know what I did this morning?”

  “What?”

  “Sent Tony to Atlantic City to check on Sun Ben’s gambling losses. The government’ll make a big deal out of it, claim he owed the casinos and had to launder money to cover his debts. Tony’s there now proving them wrong. I want the facts in front of me before I counterattack.”

  Tierney continued his monologue about Cheong, conspiracies, and life. He suddenly stopped, fatigued, and said, “Here I am rattling on when it was you who called and said you wanted to talk to me. What’s up?”

  Smith had made a decision while driving. The only person to whom he would give the copied letters was Darcy Eikenberg. But he would tell Tierney that he’d seen and read them. Which he did. The result was a temporarily speechless Wendell Tierney. He managed to ask, “How did you get to see them, Mac? Who gave them to you?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I knew you could do it,” Tierney said.

  “I didn’t do it, Wendell. They fell into my lap and, frankly, I wish they hadn’t. But they did, and here’s the conclusion I’ve reached. You didn’t write those letters.”

  Tierney laughed heartily. “Finally, somebody who makes sense.”

  “I know you didn’t write them because I also read the family history Pauline had written.”

  “I gave that to Monty Jamison to read.”

  “I know, and please don’t think poorly of Monty for passing it on to me. He’s been up to his neck with tomorrow’s Tri-S production and thought I might find the history interesting. He was right. Pauline came from a fabulous family. I guess all families are fabulous, in their own way … that is, full of foibles. But that’s irrelevant. As it happened, I read the letters and the history in the same evening. The letters are filled with words and sentence structures that appear in the history. Pauline had a convoluted way of expressing things on paper. Phrases are often out of order—‘up the street, the soldiers, they are coming down,’ that sort of thing.”

  Tierney looked puzzled.

  Smith didn’t bother explaining. “The similarities between the two documents are, at least to me, remarkable. Add to that the fact that she did the last portion of her history on the same typewriter used to type the letters. Of course, that’s only my amateur evaluation. No science involved.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Not yet. But knowing you’re not the author of the letters carries us one step ahead.”

  Tierney had trouble containing his pleasure at the news. He appeared to be ready to burst from his chair and wrap his arms around Smith, which Smith fervently hoped wouldn’t happen.

  Smith continued. “The name—your name—that appears on the bottom of each letter, was typewritten. People don’t type their names to love letters.”

  “Of course not,” Tierney said quickly. He paused before asking, “Then who wrote the letters?” The meaning of what Smith had said caught up with his question. “Are you saying Pauline wrote those letters?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “That boggles the mind,” said Tierney. He stood and went to the liquor cabinet hidden behind the wall. “Join me?” he asked. “I need something.”

  “No, thank you,” Smith said.

  Tierney carried a glass of white liquid to his chair. “The obvious question is why she would do that,” he said. “Was she nuts, and I didn’t know it?”

  “It’s possible she was disturbed and living out a fantasy. On the other hand, she might have been creating a situation in which she could
—well, to be blunt about it, blackmail you with Marilyn, or use the threat of blackmail to entice you into an affair with her. One thing is certain from those letters, Wendell—and this is assuming that she did write them herself—she was very much in love with you.”

  “That kind of love I don’t need,” he said. “I mean, from a head case.”

  Tierney’s crude characterization of Pauline made Smith uncomfortable. Even if she had written them out of a warped psychological need, she was to be pitied, not scorned. Mac silently reminded himself, however, that even if Pauline had written the letters, it didn’t rule out her having had an affair with Tierney. Nor did it mean that Tierney wasn’t aware of the letters even if he hadn’t written them. Perhaps he’d already been on the receiving end of blackmail threats from his loyal, smitten assistant.

  The drink calmed Tierney. He stood and slowly paced the room, hands on his hips, face furrowed. Eventually, he stopped and said, “I would like to see those letters, Mac. I mean, see them for myself.”

  Smith shook his head. “Sorry, Wendell, but I think that would be inappropriate. When I leave here, I intend to go directly to the detective, Eikenberg, and tell her what I’ve told you.”

  “Do you think she’ll believe you? Will she buy what you’re saying?” Before Smith could respond, Tierney added, “That would be wonderful. If you could convince her that I didn’t write those letters and had no romantic involvement with Pauline, it would go a long way toward clearing me of her murder and getting them off my back, off my family’s back.”

  Smith stood. “I have to be going, Wendell.”

  “I’d like to be with you, Mac, when you confront the police with this evidence.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Wendell. In the first place, it isn’t evidence, just a theory of mine based upon having read both sets of documents. I’d like to give Detective Eikenberg Pauline’s family history to read so that she, and others in the department, can make their own comparisons and draw their own conclusions. Is that acceptable to you?”

  “You bet it is, Mac. Give them anything you want so they learn the truth.”

  Tierney walked Smith downstairs and to the back door. “Where’s Sun Ben?” Smith asked.

  “In his apartment. The attorneys brought him back here last night after the arraignment. I’ve advised him to stay out of sight, to lay low for a couple of days. That’s exactly what he’s doing. Would you like to talk to him?”

  “No. Just tell him I hope things work out.”

  “I will.”

  Smith got in his car, started the engine, and reached under the front seat, where he’d placed the envelope containing the letters and Pauline Juris’s family history. He placed them on the passenger seat, turned on the radio, and headed for the city and police headquarters.

  28

  Detective Darcy Eikenberg had a meeting scheduled that morning with Chip Tierney and had left MPD headquarters minutes before Smith arrived. She’d told Chip on the phone that she also intended to question his fiancée, which prompted him to suggest the three of them meet. Eikenberg vetoed the suggestion. If Chip had been having an affair with Pauline Juris, he wasn’t likely to admit it in the presence of his intended.

  Once they agreed that the two of them would get together that morning, it became a matter of choosing a place. Chip hadn’t gone to work at Tierney Development because of his adopted brother’s arrest; Eikenberg had reached him at home. His low voice said that he wasn’t anxious for anyone else in the household to know that he was speaking with her. She offered to come to the house, but he was adamant. He suggested the Bistro in the Westin Hotel on Northwest M Street. She knew the place; Nick had taken her there a few times. Trendy, good food and expensive.

  Chip was two cups of coffee late, and Eikenberg didn’t attempt to hide her pique. They sat at a table for two by a window. “Sorry, but I got bagged by some business calls,” he said. She ignored his apology. “Can I buy you breakfast?” he asked.

  “Thank you, no,” she said, flipping open a steno pad that rested on the table.

  “Mind if I have something?” he said. “It’s been such a busy morning, I never got around to breakfast.”

  “Suit yourself.” She uncapped a royal-blue Parker fountain pen. “Being late has set my schedule back, so let’s get right to the point.”

  “All right. Fine.” He waved for a waitress who took his order of a mushroom-and-cheese omelet. “Did you get hold of Terri?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m meeting her later today.”

  “I’m sure she’s real shook up about this. I mean, getting a call from a detective and knowing why she’s being questioned.”

  “I’ve been told you had an affair with Pauline Juris.”

  The blunt statement had its intended impact. He sat back and placed his hand over his heart; she hoped he wasn’t about to raise his right hand and take the Boy Scout oath.

  “Did you?” she asked.

  She knew the answer by observing him. His hand shook as he returned it to the table; his mouth quavered. He said, “No. Pauline and I were just friends. She worked for my father for a long time and knew me when I was a little kid.” He forced a laugh. “An affair with her? No way.”

  “Why? Because she wasn’t attractive?”

  “Oh, you mean—no, it wasn’t that. Pauline was pretty enough, I guess. In a plain sort of way. She was married once,” he said, as though being married were a barometer of physical appeal. “No, I sure didn’t have any affair with her. Not because of … No, because I’d never mess around with someone that important to my father.”

  “Did your father have an affair with her? There are the letters.”

  He averted his eyes and was obviously relieved when the waitress arrived with his tomato juice and coffee. Eikenberg pressed on. “There are a number of people who say you and Pauline were intimate.”

  “Who would do that?”

  “The who isn’t important. They’re people who knew you and Pauline pretty well.”

  “They’re liars.”

  “Did Ms. Pate, your fiancée, know about you and Pauline?”

  She observed him closely. He was exactly where she wanted him, on edge, not sure of the right thing to say, of what answer would be acceptable and stave off further questions. “I told you—”

  “If your fiancée knew about you and Pauline, she would have had a motive to kill her.”

  “Terri? Come on, Detective. You aren’t going to tell her that, are you?”

  “Tell her what? About your affair with Pauline?”

  “No. Tell her that you think—well, yes, you aren’t going to tell her that you think Pauline and I were getting it on?”

  “What I tell her is my business.”

  “That isn’t fair,” he said. Anger had now joined his mix of facial expressions. “It isn’t true. About Pauline and me. You don’t really think Terri could have killed Pauline because—”

  “Because she was jealous?”

  “Of course not. She had nothing to be jealous about.” He placed his palms on the table and leaned forward. “Look, I don’t know who killed Pauline. It sure wasn’t me, and it’s absurd to consider Terri a suspect.”

  “Did she dislike Pauline?” Eikenberg asked.

  He sat back again. “She barely knew her.”

  “What about other people in your family, Chip? Did any of them suspect you and Pauline might have been ‘getting it on,’ as you put it?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, they had no reason to suspect anything like that.”

  “You were discreet?”

  “No, I—”

  “Your brother is in big trouble, isn’t he?”

  The younger Tierney seemed relieved that the subject had changed from Pauline’s murder to Sun Ben’s arrest. “He isn’t guilty of what they say he did,” he said. “It’s a frame-up to cover for Sam Tankloff. Sam is the one they should be looking at, not Sun Ben.”

  “What makes you say that?”

&n
bsp; “Talk to my father.”

  “What was his relationship with Pauline?”

  “Who? Sun Ben? I don’t know. He didn’t have much to do with her.”

  “Your sister?”

  A small, satisfied smile formed on his lips. “Okay,” he said smugly, “now you’re talking about somebody who had real feelings about Pauline. Suzanne hated her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Suzanne hates my father, that’s why. She’s been convinced for a long time that Dad and Pauline were having an affair. She accused him of it many times. When those letters surfaced, she really started attacking him.”

  “Was he—your father—having an affair with Pauline?”

  “No.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I know my father. He wouldn’t—” He seemed to realize that to issue a blanket denial about a rich, handsome, driving father was sophomoric. He lowered his voice and said, “I just know he wasn’t.”

  Eikenberg glanced at her watch. Time to wrap this up. She felt a certain loathing for the young man seated across from her. She would have preferred him to be brash and arrogant, to refuse to answer her questions without an attorney present, to tell her to get lost. Instead, he was like jelly, spineless, used to getting his way because of money and good looks and family. Darcy had a particular dislike for people like that. She said, “Do you know what I think, Chip?”

  “What?”

  “I think you and Pauline had something going, at least at one time. I think your father did, too. And if I were at the ballot box, I’d vote for him.”

  “My father didn’t kill her.”

  “I think he did. I think she was blackmailing him by threatening to tell your mother, which would not only blow him out of the water where she’s concerned, it wouldn’t be so great for business, either.”

  For a moment she thought he might be about to admit something painful. She saw the words form on his lips—you could almost see them formulating in his brain—but he held back. He didn’t have to say anything else as far as Darcy was concerned. It had been a fruitful forty-five minutes. She hadn’t the slightest doubt that he and Pauline had been romantically, or at least sexually, involved. He wasn’t kidding anybody. Certainly not her.