Murder at the Pentagon

by Margaret Truman

  Margit whistled. “That, Annabel, is putting it mildly. I’ve always considered myself a normally compulsive person. I have my ablutions, like most of us. But in this situation I am totally obsessed, to say nothing of being consumed by it. I must find some answer.”

  Smith left them to walk Rufus. As he led the beast to a favorite patch of brown grass at the corner, a neighbor called from his front steps. “Evening, Ross,” Smith said. “Looks like we might get some rain.”

  Ross Jepsen, a widower, spent his retirement giving tours at the National Cathedral, and working as a volunteer at the Kennedy Center gift shop. He was a nervous man, especially about the rising crime rate in the city. He had reason. Two years before, he’d been mugged. The mugger hadn’t been content to take Jepsen’s wallet; he’d beat him, severely enough to leave his victim with a slight speech disorder and a pronounced limp. He beckoned Smith to come closer.

  “I was wondering about that car,” Jepsen said, nodding in the direction of a green—or gray—sedan parked four or five spaces on the other side of Smith’s house.

  Smith looked. “Is someone in it?”

  “Yes. Been there for an hour,” said Jepsen.

  Smith grunted. “Probably waiting for someone.”

  “Waiting a long time.”

  “Well, Ross, let’s keep an eye on it, give it another hour. If he’s still there—it is a man?…” Jepsen nodded. “Then we’ll call the police.”

  “I think we should do it now.”

  “If you’d feel better,” Smith said.

  “I think I would.”

  “Let me know how it turns out,” Smith said, responding to Rufus’s urgent tug on his lead.

  Smith returned to his house, stood in the doorway of the den, and asked, “What are you going to do about this so-called obsessive-compulsive need to resolve what happened to Cobol?”

  Margit sighed. “Keep digging, I guess. I told Cobol’s mother at the funeral that there were people who might be willing to help me clear his name. I was thinking of you.”

  “Flattering,” Smith said, sounding as though he didn’t entirely mean it.

  “It’s become a cause with me,” Margit explained. “I haven’t had many causes in my life, and those I have haven’t demanded much of me. I’m involved with DACWITS, a military women’s organization. I’ve worked for local humane societies in some of the places I’ve been stationed. I feel strongly about many things, but this is different. A man, who happens to be a fellow officer, has died with his name dragged through the mud. He never even had a chance to clear himself. I’ve done what Colonel Bellis warned me not to do. I became emotionally involved with him, and with his family and friends. I want to clear his name, Mac. I have to clear his name.”

  “Fair enough, “said Smith, returned to his recliner. “How do you intend to go about it?”

  “I was hoping you could give me some advice about that.”

  “Do you have any resources left to you within the military?” Smith asked.

  “No. Maybe that’s what upsets me most. This horrible thing—the murder of a scientist, an army captain accused of the murder, homosexual allegations flying around, the captain found hanged in his cell, allegedly by his own hand—and no one involved has even raised an eyebrow.” She thought of Louise Harrison, and debated whether to tell Mac and Annabel about her earlier meeting with the reporter. Smith would be critical of her for talking with the press, and she wasn’t anxious to be criticized. But she told them about the meeting, and that Harrison had brought up the question of whether Joycelen had been a whistle-blower to the Wishengrad committee.

  Smith muttered, “Interesting. Better: pertinent.”

  “Jeff must know something about that,” Annabel offered.

  “I assume he does, but he’s not talking,” Margit said.

  “Joycelen is obviously the key to this,” Smith remarked. “And Wishengrad.”

  Margit agreed.

  “What do you want me to do?” Smith asked. He glanced at Annabel, who smiled. Friendly? Chiding? Any smile in a storm.

  “Your friend who was here the other night,” Margit said. “The private investigator.”

  “Tony Buffolino,” Smith said. “Spelled with an O. He’s sensitive about that. What would you like him to do?”

  Margit raised her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I have no idea. I’ve never worked with a private investigator before.”

  “Nothing mysterious about it, Margit,” Smith said. “Would you like Tony to do some digging into Joycelen’s life?”

  “Do you think he would?”

  A laugh from Smith. “Tony will do anything for money.”

  Annabel quickly said, “Almost anything.”

  “Right,” Smith said. “Almost anything. I told you he was a good investigator. Is the Cobol family interested in clearing the captain’s name?”

  “Very much,” Margit answered.

  “Tony will have to be paid,” Smith said.

  “Of course,” Margit agreed. She sat forward and placed her hands on her knees. “I think Flo Cobol, Robert’s mother, would sell hearth and home to clear him.”

  “I’ll talk to Tony,” Smith said.

  Margit said, “If Flo Cobol isn’t willing, I’ll pay him out of money my father left me.”

  Smith sighed deeply before saying, “Are you absolutely sure, Margit, that wanting to pursue that doesn’t represent some—some emotional need of the moment that will naturally pass with time?”

  “I’ve been sitting here wondering the same thing,” Margit said. “Is this my feeble attempt to rectify what happened to my father? Maybe. A couple of layers deep? Maybe. But so what? Hopefully, I have a lot of years to live with myself. I didn’t go to see Cobol when he called, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my years tossing and turning because I didn’t do the right thing.”

  Smith stood in the center of the room. “I’ll get to Tony in the morning and set up a meeting. Can you come back tomorrow night?”

  “Tomorrow is Thursday,” Margit said. “Yes, I can come after work.”

  “Unless you hear from me, or vice versa. I’ll have Tony here at seven.”

  They stood outside in the tiny front yard that was typical of houses on the block. It was a balmy night; heat and humidity had begun to move in. Summer’s last gasp. Low, fast-moving clouds slid silently above them. Smith asked, “Have you thought about taking leave, Margit?”

  “Yes, I have, but I think it’s better for me to continue working. I might learn more by being in the Pentagon.”

  “You do realize, don’t you,” Smith said, “that pursuing this can backfire on you?”

  “I’ve thought about that. I’ve become a master at rationalization. I tell myself that I’m not going against orders because I haven’t received flat-out orders. All I’m doing is a favor for Flo Cobol. I suppose it’s the same justification I used in getting you involved with Cobol’s defense. The family wanted civilian counsel. Now, that same family wants help in clearing the name of a dead son. Does it play?”

  Smith put his hand on her shoulder. “Not entirely,” he said, “but it isn’t outrageous, either. Let’s take small steps at a time. No big leaps destined to get you in trouble. Tony will act with discretion.”

  Margit thanked them and walked up the street to where she had found an almost-legal parking space. Mac and Annabel watched her get into her car, start the engine, turn on the headlights, and pull away. As she did, the car that Ross Jepsen had pointed out to Smith left the curb and fell in behind her. Smith stepped onto the sidewalk and squinted to read the license plate of the receding car.

  “What’s the matter?” Annabel asked.

  “The driver of that car was waiting for Margit to leave. I think she’s being followed.”

  Ross Jepsen approached them.

  “Did you call the police?” Smith asked.

  “Yes. They came.”

  “And?”

  “I watched from my window. A patrol car
pulled up next to the car, and they talked to the driver.”

  “And?”

  “Just like all cops,” Jepsen said disgustedly. “They drove away.”

  “I suppose everything was kosher,” Smith said. “Good night, Ross.”

  “Good night.”

  Back inside the house, Smith wrote down the plate number. “I want Tony to run down who owns that car first thing in the morning.”

  “She’s in danger, isn’t she?” Annabel said.

  “All I know is that when people follow you, they aren’t handing out winning sweepstakes tickets. Feel like a ride?”

  “Where?”

  “Bolling. I’ll get the car. You call Margit. You’ll get her machine. Tell her someone followed her from the house, and to be on the lookout for trouble. Tell her we’re on our way.”

  “You’re frightening me, Mac.”

  “Not my intention. But we should be concerned.”

  Annabel was waiting at the curb when Mac pulled up after retrieving the car from a rented garage down the street. They said nothing as they headed for the base, where they were stopped by a spit-and-polish young airman and a gate that was lowered.

  “Can I help you, sir?” the airman asked.

  “Yes,” said Smith. “We’re here to visit Major Margit Falk.”

  “Is she expecting you, sir?”

  “No. But she’ll be happy to see us.”

  “Excuse me, sir.” He returned to the small booth, consulted a base directory, and dialed a number. After a brief conversation, he returned to Smith’s car and said, “Major Falk is in BOQ Thirteen Hundred.” He directed Smith to the building, stepped back, pushed a button that raised the gate, and stood at attention as the car proceeded beneath it.

  Mac and Annabel turned a corner. BOQ 1300 was directly in front of them. As they aproached, they saw two different things. Annabel spotted Margit, who stood on the steps outside the main door. Mac saw the green—or gray—sedan that had been parked on his street an hour earlier. It was metallic blue, and was at the curb across from Margit’s building.

  Smith headed directly for it.

  “There’s Margit,” Annabel said.

  “And there’s the car,” he said gruffly.

  He pulled up next to it and overtly peered at its occupants. They stared back.

  “Mac, please,” Annabel said.

  “How’d they get in here?” her husband asked. He answered his own question. “They belong here.” He made a U-turn and pulled up to where Margit waited. The other car drove away slowly.

  “Mac, Annabel,” Margit said through Smith’s open window. “Why are you here?”

  “That car,” Smith said.

  Margit looked at the metallic-blue sedan as its red tail-lights bled around a corner and disappeared. “What about it?” she asked.

  “They followed you.”

  “Followed me?”

  “Yes. They waited in front of our house until you left. Then they fell in behind you.”

  “I … are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’ll have Tony Buffolino check out the plate in the morning.”

  Margit’s laugh was nervous, disbelieving.

  “You okay?” Smith asked.

  “Yes. Fine.”

  “Did you get Annabel’s message?”

  “What message?”

  “I left it on your answering machine,” Annabel said, leaning across her husband.

  “I didn’t listen to messages.”

  “Margit, why is someone following you?” Smith asked.

  “Are they? I don’t know why anyone would.”

  “We’re worried about you.”

  “I appreciate that but … want to come up? I’ll make coffee.”

  “Thanks, no,” Smith said. “We just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “I’m fine. I really appreciate your coming here. Thank you. But I’m fine.”

  “Keep your eyes open,” said Smith.

  “I will. You’re both very special people.” She kissed Smith on the cheek and grasped Annabel’s hand. “Go to bed. Tomorrow is almost here.”

  As Mac and Annabel drove home, Mac said, “Sorry to drag you out.”

  “You didn’t drag me anywhere. That car. It was the same one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, although I’m brimming over with speculation. I know one thing for certain, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That Margit is about to take on the most powerful bureaucracy in the world, the United States military.”

  “And so are you.”

  He didn’t reply.

  25

  “Margit? Jeff.”

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “I acted like a jerk. Forgive me?”

  She glanced at Jay Kraft, who was reading that morning’s Early Bird. “We have to talk,” she said.

  “I know. I keep reading your note. You said you were willing to hold to our date for Saturday.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “How about dinner tonight? Someplace quiet where we can have a nice, easy conversation.”

  “I can’t. I have plans.”

  “So soon?” His conciliatory tone had gone flat.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Somebody else already?”

  “I have to go. I have work to do.”

  “Okay, okay, sorry. I didn’t mean that. How about Friday night?”

  “Will call you. Home tonight?”

  “Yes. What time?”

  “Around eleven.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Their plans for Saturday involved a dinner-dance at Andrews Air Force Base’s Officers’ Club, a joint-service social affair sponsored by SecDef’s Directorate of Defense Research and Engineering. A “morale booster” was the way it was described around the Pentagon. Margit had looked forward to it, especially when Jeff had made a point of clearing his schedule in order to accompany her. Now, it did not hold the same appeal, although she was committed to going. You carefully selected what military social events to skip. The invitation had called for an RSVP, but it had the ring of a command performance.

  “Good morning, Majors,” Max Lanning said from the doorway.

  Kraft uttered his predictable grunt. Margit went into the hallway with Lanning and shut the door behind her. “Did you find out anything about that duty roster?” she asked.

  “Yup.”

  “And? Who put Captain Cobol on it that Saturday morning?”

  “I had trouble finding out because a copy of that day’s roster isn’t available.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. They routinely file them, but that one is missing.”

  “You didn’t find out anything,” she said.

  “Negative,” Lanning said. He smiled. “I asked around. I have a couple of civilian friends there, and …”

  Her expression invited more.

  “It was a major in T and E.”

  “Major who?”

  “A Major Mucci. Major Anthony Mucci.”

  Monroney’s aide.

  “Thanks,” Margit said. “This will help me wrap up my final report.”

  “Glad I could help. If you want me to find out anything else, just let me know.”

  “What about my bet?” she asked.

  “Bet?”

  “HP-5.”

  “Oh, that.” He was whispering. “You both lose,” he said.

  “We do?”

  “Right. That’s a top-secret code. CIA.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But you don’t know what it means.”

  “No, and I don’t want to. Sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about, Max. I didn’t mean to ask you to look into something top secret.”

  “I know that. I guess I lose my half of your win.”

  “Looks like it. Thanks again for checking on the duty ro
ster. I owe you.”

  When she was again seated at her desk, Kraft asked, “What’s the kid got, a thing for you?”

  Margit glared at him. “We happen to be friends.”

  “You should think twice about being friends with lieutenants, especially that lieutenant.”

  “Why especially that lieutenant?”

  “Because his mind is on vacation, but his mouth works overtime.”

  Security at the Dirksen Senate Office Building had been beefed up for the arrival that afternoon of Ari Ben Elaha, Israel’s ambassador to the United States, who was to meet with Senator Hank Wishengrad. Elaha was escorted by a cadre of American military, supplemented by his own armed escorts.

  They met in Wishengrad’s private conference room, a large, sparsely furnished space in which an oval antique dining-room table occupied the center. Six chairs lined each side. Wishengrad, two committee colleagues, and Jeff Foxboro and another staff member took one side. Elaha, an official translator—who was seldom needed because Elaha spoke perfect English—and an aide faced them.

  Elaha had been lobbying key administration and congressional leaders for the past two weeks. This meeting, he knew, was crucial to his mission. Wishengrad’s chairmanship of the Senate committee was a position of indisputable power—especially if you were looking for weapons money.

  After a few initial pleasantries Elaha said, “As you know, Senator, I have been meeting with key members of President Beardsley’s staff, the National Security Council, and representatives of your Central Intelligence Agency.”

  Wishengrad smiled. “I am aware, Mr. Ambassador, of those meetings. I hear they went well.”

  No smile added additional creases to Elaha’s avuncular, tan, deeply etched face. “Yes, they have gone quite well,” he said. “It is my hope, of course, that this meeting will be as fruitful.”

  Wishengrad visually involved his colleagues before saying, “We’ve been reviewing the statements made by your ambassador to the UN, and the formal written requests you’ve submitted. You’re aware, of course, that I’ve spent years fighting to cut down on the sale of weapons to other countries, including Israel.”

  “And you’ve been successful,” said Elaha, “much to our chagrin. But despite the stance you’ve taken in the past, I’m confident that the recent shift in events in our region will create a new and compelling reason to modify your view.”