Funny, too, how a structure so full of life a few hours earlier could be so devoid of it now.
“Come on,” he said, yanking at Rufus’s leash. Rufus balked; because of his size and strength, when the dog balked, he almost always prevailed. The Dane pulled hard as he tried to go behind the relief to where a small cluster of wooden benches provided seating in the midst of carefully tended shrubs, bushes, and small trees.
“No, come on, Rufus, we don’t want to go back there.”
Rufus kept up the pressure on his leash; Smith finally gave up and went with him. Once behind the relief, Smith tried to see what the Dane would wet down, or what had captured the dog’s attention. A half-moon provided some illumination. The first thing Smith saw was a long, colorful feather on the ground. Rufus sniffed it and continued pressing into the shrubbery. “Hey, Rufus, what are you …?”
Then he saw what the dog was after, a silk-stockinged female foot. A shoe with a medium heel rested close to it. “Damn,” Smith muttered as he shortened the leash and moved closer, fearing to interrupt something private. Now, the length of a shapely leg was visible, and then the woman, her skirt hiked up her thighs. Rufus, as though understanding what was at stake, stopped pulling and stood at attention, a low growl coming from his throat.
Smith pushed aside a low branch. He saw what he sensed was the full body, and knew immediately who it was by the exotic feather belt around her waist. “Good God,” he whispered as he stepped over her legs. Andrea Feldman’s arresting eyes were wide open—but gone to glass. Her mouth was open as well. Blood had oozed from her chest through the fabric of her dress. Her purse was on the ground; it had opened and its contents bled into the dirt, too.
Smith crouched and took her wrist. Then he looked at the debris of her death. Lipstick. A small makeup mirror. A pen. And a key, obviously from a hotel. Smith read the writing on the large red plastic tag attached to it: BUCCANEER MOTEL, ROSSLYN, VIRGINIA. The numeral 6 was also imprinted on the tag.
He led Rufus to the front of the relief, looked for someone, saw no one, and quickly ran, the dog leading the way, to the house, where he burst into the living room, thumbed through his phone book until he found the number he wanted, and dialed.
A deep, sleepy voice answered.
“Joe, Mac Smith. I’m sorry to wake you, but there’s been a terrible accident. Maybe a murder.”
Joe Riga, chief of detectives of Washington’s MPD, was now awake. “Where? Who?”
“A young woman named Andrea Feldman, who worked on Ken Ewald’s staff. I was walking my dog near the Kennedy Center and found the body.”
“Why didn’t you call—?”
“Nine-one-one? Joe, I don’t know what this means, but I have to… well, there could be ramifications. Considerable ramifications. If you want me to call nine-one-one, I will, but …”
“No, Mac, sorry I even suggested it. I understand. Where’s the woman, the body? You sure she’s dead? Okay, forget that last.”
“Behind the large relief across the fountain from the Kennedy Center, in front. She’s in the bushes.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Fine, I’ll meet you there—and Joe … I would appreciate it if we could keep this quiet for a few hours.”
“We can keep it quiet until I see the body and call it in. I can’t do more than that. It probably won’t keep for long anyhow. You know this town.”
“Sure do. And thanks.”
“You can make a positive ID on her, Mac?” Riga asked as they stood over the body.
“Yes. Her name is Andrea Feldman.”
Riga handed Smith the flashlight he carried, squatted, took the chin between his thumb and index finger, and gently moved her jaw back and forth. “Still slack,” he said. He slid his hand down the top of her dress and nestled it in her armpit. “Didn’t happen long ago,” he said as he removed his hand and stood. “Still some warmth. I’ll call it in.”
“Joe, maybe you can do one favor, a legal one.”
“What?”
“Let me get hold of Ewald and tell him what’s happened before the identification is announced. All I need is an hour, or even a few minutes.”
“No problem.” Riga called in for backup and a forensic unit to come to the scene. “Identity of victim uncertain,” he said into his radio.
Smith thanked him and returned home, where he dialed the Ewald house.
A sleepy Leslie answered.
“Leslie, it’s Mac Smith. Sorry to be calling at this hour, but this is important. Is Ken there?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Leslie, Andrea Feldman has been murdered.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“I was walking Rufus and discovered her about an hour ago. Someone shot her outside the Kennedy Center, across from the main entrance.”
“Mac, this is dreadful. Who could have done such a thing? Where is her family?”
“I have no idea, but I thought Ken ought to know right away.”
“Of course.” She turned away from the mouthpiece and murmured. Ewald came on the line. “Mac, could you come here right away?” he asked.
“Of course, but …”
“Please, Mac, come now.”
“Sure. Anybody there to make some coffee at this hour?”
“Of course. This is unbelievable. She was at the party. She was alive. I’m shocked.”
“So was I. Hot, black, and strong. I’m on my way.”
5
The stately two-story redbrick Ewald home was on the upper reaches of Twenty-eighth Street in Georgetown; behind it, Oak Hill Cemetery. The house sat on a rise of land, giving its occupants a view of the Dumbarton Oaks mansion and gardens.
Smith pulled up in his blue Chevy Caprice and told one of two uniformed security guards that he was expected. The guard used an intercom to confirm it, and pushed a button that caused black iron gates to open electronically. Smith pulled into the circular driveway and was about to knock on the front door when Leslie Ewald opened it.
“Hello, Leslie.”
“Hello, Mac.” She looked past him to the front gate. Smith observed her closely. The flesh around her eyes was spongy, like putty that has been rubbed with a thumb covered with pencil lead. Lines he hadn’t noticed earlier in the evening seemed suddenly to have exploded at the corners of her mouth. She bit her lip, realized he was looking at her—realized he was there. “I’m sorry, Mac, please forgive me. I hate having to …”
She looked at the gate again. Smith, too, looked.
“We’ve always had one guard. Now, there are two. Ed Farmer had the extra sent over as soon as we told him about Ms. Feldman. They’re going to install an electrified fence around the property—like one of those things that fries bugs.” She looked up at the portico roof. “Cameras, too. God, how I hate it all!”
“Beefing up security might be wise,” Smith said, “considering Andrea Feldman was a close working member of the staff. The media people and others will be all over you when it comes out.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“Let’s go inside,” Smith said.
She ignored him and pointed to her left. Parked on the road at the corner of the property was a small white car.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“Press. They were at police headquarters. I suppose we’ll end up being surrounded.”
As she entered the foyer, she started to cry. Smith followed and shut the door behind them. She looked at him with round, moist eyes that were spilling tears down her cheeks. Her body heaved, and she threw herself against him. He wrapped his big arms about her thin shoulders and held her for a time, saying softly, “Easy, easy. It’s terrible that Andrea Feldman has died but …”
“You don’t understand, Mac.”
“I assume I will quickly.”
“Yes, very quickly.” She regained her composure, even forced a smile. “I haven’t fallen apart in years.” She took his hand. “Come, Ken and Ed Farmer are i
n the study.”
As she opened the door, Farmer came through it, followed closely by Ewald. “Mac, good to see you, thanks for being here,” Ewald said, putting his hand on Smith’s shoulder. “Back in a minute.”
Leslie looked as if she might cry again, so Smith asked if he could have a drink before the coffee. “It’s been hours since the party.” He really didn’t want one, but his strategy worked. She now had something to do. She quickly departed, leaving him alone in the paneled room.
He’d been there before on dozens of occasions, yet for reasons he couldn’t identify, it was strangely new to him at this moment.
Two walls were taken up with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. A third wall contained cases with glass doors that housed Ewald’s extensive collection of antique guns—a strange hobby, Smith often thought, for someone perpetually at war with the NRA. “They’re beautiful to look at, and they have great historic meaning. Shooting them is another matter,” Ewald always said when questioned about it. Smith had always found Ewald somewhat enigmatic—predictable in a few unappealing ways, persuasively attractive in others. A human being.
Leslie returned carrying a scotch on the rocks for him, a balloon glass containing a dark liquid for her, partly consumed. “Did I get it right, Mac, scotch?”
“Yes, might as well stay with it. What are you drinking?” To keep her talking.
“Brandy and port. When Ken and I were in Scotland a few years ago, we took a particularly rough boat trip to the Orkney Islands. My stomach was queasy, and I asked the bartender for some blackberry brandy. He insisted a combination of port and brandy was more effective. He was right. I’ve felt like throwing up ever since we got your phone call, but this settled my stomach right down.”
When they were seated on adjoining flowered love seats around a leather-topped coffee table, Smith said, “Okay, tell me about it. Don’t mince words, just be direct. I know the death of anyone we know is terribly upsetting, but I’m reading into this something beyond that. Am I right?”
“Yes, you are very right.”
“What am I right about?”
“I don’t know where to begin. I suppose I should just tell you that—”
Ewald and Farmer returned. Ewald pulled a red morocco leather chair on casters up to the table, settled his long, lean body in it, and crossed one leg over the other, the casualness of the pose in stark contrast to the tension-stiffened body of his wife. Farmer stood by a window behind Smith.
“Leslie was just starting to tell me about a particular concern you have with Andrea’s death.”
Ewald said to his wife, “Go ahead, might as well continue.” Smith couldn’t decide whether Ewald was angry at Leslie or feeling an anxiety that his outward appearance didn’t reflect.
Leslie shook her head and looked down at her drink.
“All right, I’ll pick it up from there,” Ewald said. “Evidently, Andrea was murdered with a weapon that belongs to me.”
The expulsion of air through Smith’s lips was involuntary—and necessary. He sat back and listened to Ewald’s further explanation.
“I’ve had a registered handgun in the house for years. Leslie had been expressing concern about the amount of time I’m away, and I thought simply having it on the premises would be comforting to her.” He looked at Leslie; she continued to stare down into her port and brandy.
“It was a small stainless-steel Derringer, a three-inch .45 Colt. It’s been sitting in a drawer in the bedroom for God knows how long. At any rate, after you called with the news about Andrea, I opened the drawer. Don’t ask me why, but I did. The gun is gone.”
“Who had access to it besides you and Leslie?” Smith asked.
Ewald looked once again at his wife. “Everyone in the house,” she said.
“Family?” Smith asked.
“Yes, family, visitors, household staff, campaign staff. A cast of thousands.”
Smith thought for a moment before asking, “Is that what’s concerning you so? Or do you think that someone in this household is going to be accused of her murder?”
Ewald didn’t reply, but Leslie did, in a low, flat voice. “Yes.”
“Someone from your staff, Ken?”
“No,” Ewald said, looking at Leslie for the first time as if to receive approval of what he was about to say next. She was without expression. He said, “We feel there is the possibility that Paul will be charged with the murder.”
“Why do you say that?” Smith asked.
“Because …”
Leslie Ewald finished the sentence. “Because Paul was having an affair with her.” Smith started to speak, but Leslie forged on. “Paul was having an affair with Andrea Feldman, and last night he did not return home.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. We talked to Janet.”
Smith was processing what she’d said. Both things pointed at Paul Ewald as a suspect, but they were hardly conclusive. Smith added a third element; Paul obviously had access to his father’s pistols.
Smith realized Ed Farmer was still standing by the window. He’d forgotten Farmer was in the room. He turned and looked at the campaign manager, then asked Ken and Leslie whether there was any other information.
“Janet knew about Paul’s affair with Andrea,” Leslie said. “It caused a tremendous rift in the marriage, naturally, and I know Janet had issued an ultimatum to Paul.”
Farmer started to leave the room. “Drink, anyone?” he asked.
Smith and Ken Ewald passed, but Leslie asked him to refill her glass. When Farmer was gone, Smith said, “Have you called me here as a family friend, as a lawyer, or for my reaction to this in terms of your campaign?”
“All of that, but especially number two, Mac,” Ewald said. “If Paul is charged, we want you to defend him.” Leslie sat up straight, closed her eyes tight, and started to cry convulsively.
Ewald moved to her side and put his arm around her. “Take it easy, honey; chances are Paul’s not going to be charged with anything. Mac, we just need your advice.”
“I think I ought to say something right now,” Smith cautioned. They both looked at him. “I’ve been a quasi-legal adviser to this family on a very informal level, and I used to be a practicing attorney. I am now a contented college professor, teaching law at a major university. I’m sorry, but I could not take on Paul’s legal defense.”
“We know how you feel, Mac, but if we’ve ever asked a favor of you, this is it. Please, at least consider it.”
“Of course I’ll consider it. But you have to know where I am. And I just got there in recent years. Look, I want to make a few informal phone calls, maybe pick up some information that will be helpful to you whether or not I have anything more to do with this officially. You know I’ll help if I can. I’ll get back to you later this morning.”
They walked him to the door. As he shook Ken’s hand and kissed Leslie on the cheek, he found himself gripped with a sense of pathos and concern. Obviously, the three of them knew that if Paul was charged with the murder, not only would it be a tragic personal experience, it could have a severe impact on Ken Ewald’s drive for the White House. And though it seemed unthinkable, a conviction could end that drive. As far as Mac Smith was concerned—despite some reservations about Ewald—that would not be good for the country. He chewed on that thought as he drove back to his home in Foggy Bottom.
6
While Mac Smith made phone calls from home the next morning, Colonel Gilbert Morales entered the White House through the Diplomatic Reception Room. He was accompanied by an aide. Two members of the Secret Service had escorted them from the gate, and they were all greeted inside by Richard Morse, an undersecretary from State whose area of expertise was Central America. “The president will be with you shortly, Colonel Morales. Please have a seat. Would you like coffee, tea, a soft drink?”
“No, thank you.” Morales surveyed a variety of spindly chairs until settling his large body into the one that appeared to be the most substantial. Even at
that, he was uncomfortable. His aide, a young man in an ill-fitting brown suit whose face was deeply pitted, walked to the far side of the room and looked closely at the wallpaper.
“President and Mrs. Kennedy brought that paper to the White House,” one of the Secret Service agents said. “It was made in France in 1934 by Jean Zuber and Company.” He and his partner were often assigned to conducting public tours of the White House, and were well versed in its decor and history. The agent added to his description, filling the time: “The painter had never visited the United States, but he used engravings he’d seen as a model for his work. That’s Niagara Falls,” he continued, in the voice he used with tourists. “That’s Boston Harbor.”
The aide said nothing and took a chair next to Morales.
Undersecretary Morse inquired about Mrs. Morales.
“She is fine, thank you,” Morales said. “She is very busy with humanitarian efforts for our people.”
“Yes, I’m sure she is,” Morse replied. “Gathering medical supplies from private sources, and so on.”
Colonel Gilbert Morales had been the military leader of Panama and a staunch ally of the United States. Deposed in a coup staged by the current Panamanian leadership, he’d fled with his family, settled in Washington, and immediately launched an intensive lobbying effort on behalf of forces in Panama still loyal to him. He’d found sympathetic ears in President Walter Manning and his administration.
A door opened, and a young man in a blue suit stepped into the room. He said to Morse in a library whisper, “The president is ready.” They all went upstairs to the State Dining Room, where President Manning, Vice-President Raymond Thornton, Secretary of State Marlin Budd, and Senate Minority Leader Jesse Chamberlain were seated at the large dining table. The Panamanian was directed to a chair next to Secretary Budd. His aide stood awkwardly to the side. “Mr. Morse,” Budd said, “please see that our young visitor is extended every courtesy downstairs.”
Murder at the Kennedy Center Page 4