Murder at the Kennedy Center

by Margaret Truman

  “Yes, he probably is those things, Leslie, but he also is probably Andrea Feldman’s father.”

  Their mutual silence was palpable.

  “How did you find that out?” Ken asked. Before Smith could answer, he added, “Can you prove it? What is this, speculation by this investigator you’ve hired, or some yellow journalism by this reporter? By the way, who is this journalist?”

  “Rhonda Harrison, from WRC. She’s not doing this for the station, however. She has an assignment from Washingtonian to do a piece on Feldman. She’s good at her trade. Between Rhonda and Tony, they’ve discovered that Andrea had been receiving sizable amounts of money from an organization known as the Democratic Action Front.”

  Leslie’s face registered a lack of recognition at the name. Ken’s face was another matter. Smith waited for him to say something. Before he did, he walked to the window and looked outside. Rain had started to fall, and gusts of wind splashed it over the glass. He turned and said, “Okay, Mac, let’s open this whole thing up. Not that that represents a decision on my part. You’ve already done it.”

  “Ken, what’s this about?” Leslie asked.

  Ken held up his hands and said, “Relax, Leslie, and you’ll find out. Years ago, when I decided to make a run for president, I started building my base. That involved all the usual activities, lining up financial and political support around the country, seeking high visibility, taking stands on national issues beyond those I had taken before, the textbook approach to getting ready.

  “I figured that my opponent would come out of the incumbent administration, which probably meant Raymond Thornton. Thornton would be tough, because the Manning administration has made everything seem hale and hearty in the country, manipulating economic statistics, calling tax raises something else, proclaiming a prosperity that, in reality, is built on a foundation of sand. I figured I ought to know everything I could about Thornton, and started digging.” He laughed without mirth. “Funny, I used investigators, too.”

  “You did?” Leslie asked.

  Smith looked at her. “You didn’t know any of this, Leslie?”

  She shook her head. “Not about investigators looking into Thornton’s life.” She asked her husband, “Did it result in anything worthwhile?”

  “Yes, it certainly did. One of the investigators I hired was well connected in Southern California politics. He hooked up with a man named Stuart Lyme. Remember him?”

  “Yes, I do,” Smith said. “Stuart Lyme was a leading right-wing figure in California for years, a real back-room power player.”

  “You have a good memory, Mac,” Ewald said.

  “I also seem to remember that he died under mysterious circumstances, a fall from a window, something like that.”

  Ewald said, “He drowned off Baja. It happened shortly after Stuart had delivered to me, through this investigator, a report loaded with political explosives.”

  “Why would someone like Lyme, a dyed-in-the-wool conservative, work with you, help you out?”

  “Because Stuart’s son had been killed. The crime was never solved, probably because those in power didn’t want it to be solved. Stuart knew his son had died at the hands of Garrett Kane.”

  “Kane?” Smith and Leslie said together.

  “Yes. Not Kane himself, of course, but members of his inner sanctum. Stuart’s son had become deeply involved in Kane’s ministry. He eventually rose high enough in its structure to know what was really going on, and documented every scrap of it, including Kane’s use of fronts through which to launder money, and to channel it to his pet causes, like Morales’s activities in Panama. There were other fronts and causes, of course, but Panama and Morales have always been Kane’s favorite.

  “Lyme’s son broke from Kane. I don’t know why, but he did. He took the material with him. Kane eventually found out and ordered the son murdered. But before the killing could be carried out, Lyme’s son had passed the material to his father.

  “At first, Lyme didn’t know what to do with the material. He knew that Kane was close to President Manning, and that Morales was being supported by the president and his national-security people but, as they say, blood runs thicker than water, and Lyme broke from them. That was when he decided to give me the material his son had given him. He had one request, that I use it to put Kane out of business. I’ve sat on it ever since.”

  “Why?” Smith asked. “If the material was that damaging, you could have used it to launch a Senate investigation.”

  Ewald’s discomfort with the question was evident. He sat up a little straighter and said, “I decided to wait until I really needed it.”

  “Which was when you made your run for president.”

  “Yes. I didn’t want to waste it in the Senate, where I was already comfortable and secure. I decided I’d use it against Thornton when the time was right.”

  “The material Lyme gave you implicates Thornton with Kane and Morales?” Leslie asked.

  “In no uncertain terms,” Ewald answered. “Everything was laid out—names, places, people, bank accounts, correspondence, the works. That’s what was stolen from the house.”

  “Andrea Feldman?” Leslie asked.

  Ewald shrugged. “I suppose so. Who else could it be? It all makes sense now, this business of Andrea receiving money from Kane through this phony organization—what’s it called, Democratic Action Front?”

  “Yes,” Smith said.

  Leslie asked, “When did you know it was missing, Ken?”

  “A while ago.”

  “Why didn’t you—”

  Ewald cut her off by saying to Smith, “Sure, it all makes sense. Andrea stole it, and if this character Greist is her father, she gave it to him.”

  Smith shrugged. “Bear in mind, Ken, that Greist has been connected with Communist causes. I suppose it is possible that Andrea gave it to Greist for him to try and sell back to you, but we think it’s more likely she stole it at DAF’s behest. It might have ended up with Greist, but it probably wasn’t Andrea’s original intention to give it to him.”

  Ewald stood and paced the room.

  “We have a theory, Ken,” Smith said, “although we have no idea whether it holds water. We think Andrea might have stolen the material for Kane and Thornton, but left it with her mother for safekeeping. Her mother in turn brought in the father. They figured they could get big bucks out of you because you’d pay anything to get it back. Does that play?”

  “I suppose,” Ewald said. “Christ, all this would have to happen at such a crucial time.”

  “Well,” said Smith, “at least you’ve confirmed that something tangible was stolen from your house.” He was tempted to bring up Roseanna Gateaux. Jim Shevlin’s mention of her had stayed with him. Why was the FBI interested in Gateaux? He decided he would raise the issue when he and Ewald were alone. Otherwise, it would only hurt Leslie and accomplish nothing. He said, “I know you’re both terribly busy and I’ll get out of your hair, but I would like something else cleared up for me. Paul indicated that he’d met Andrea at a party, and that she convinced him to put in a good word with you. Is that true?”

  Ewald nodded. “It was obvious to me that Paul was infatuated with her, and that concerned me. I had reservations, but Ed Farmer tipped the scale in her favor.”

  “He did? He knew Andrea well enough to make such a judgment?”

  “He seemed to. He told me that she would be a real asset to the campaign and urged me to hire her. I did.”

  “Paul must have been pleased,” Smith said.

  “Yes, too much so. I sensed something was going on between them long before Janet found out. I probably should have followed my gut instincts and not hired her, but with both Paul and Ed in her corner, I went with it.”

  He glanced anxiously at Leslie, who’d fixed him in a challenging stare. “Go on, Ken, finish the story for Mac,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tell Mac how Paul brought Andrea Feldman into the house and t
he campaign and how … how Daddy ended up sleeping with her.”

  Ewald leaped to his feet. “That’s a lie, Leslie! I may have …”

  Leslie laughed. “Little too quick with the tongue, Ken. What were you about to say, that you may have slept with others but not with her? Let’s face it, Ken, your overactive glands have led this family into trouble it doesn’t deserve. You had clear sailing to the White House, and look what’s fallen on our son—suspicion of murder. And now you’re being blackmailed because you couldn’t control your libido.”

  She looked at Mac, who hadn’t expected this eruption when he brought up Andrea’s name again. He was distinctly and visibly uncomfortable. “Mac,” she asked, “did you happen to see a confrontation I had with a young reporter a week or so ago?”

  “The one who asked whether you would be the first divorced First Lady?”

  “Yes. She nailed it—which is why I nailed her. We are not a happily married couple, and haven’t been for quite a while. We are Ken and Barbie, but only for the voters. I suppose I really don’t have to tell you this, Mac. You’re astute enough, and have been around long enough, to have picked up on it.”

  Smith sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Whether I did or not, Leslie, doesn’t seem to be terribly important. This really isn’t my business.”

  “I disagree. I think it is very much your business. You have taken a leave from the university to help us, and if I remember correctly, the rule always was that your attorney must know everything.”

  “I’m no one’s attorney, Leslie,” Smith said. “I’m just a friend.” He stood. “I have to leave, but there is another thing I would like to air before I do.” He was happy to have something else to talk about other than their personal problems. “Lots of people presumably had reason to kill—or at least could rationalize killing—Andrea Feldman. If she were double-dealing Kane, he certainly wouldn’t be a fan. Do you think she might have been murdered by someone at Kane’s command, as you say Stuart Lyme’s son was?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Ewald said, still glaring at his wife.

  Smith took them both in slowly before asking, “Is there anyone within your circle—family, friends, household staff, campaign staff—who you think might have killed Andrea Feldman?”

  “No,” Leslie said without hesitation.

  “Ken?” Smith asked.

  “No, of course not. It was obviously someone connected with that madman Kane, maybe somebody from Morales’s band of thugs, maybe even the Manning White House.”

  There was a knock at the door. Three members of the Watergate’s catering staff had arrived for the meeting. “Come in, please,” Leslie said pleasantly, a large and winning smile on her face, a triumph of muscle control.

  “Thanks for your time,” Smith said.

  “Are you going home?” Leslie asked.

  “No, I think I’ll stop in the suite we’ve taken here in the Watergate. I have some details to take care of.”

  She stepped close to him and said, “I don’t know why you’re staying involved, but I am very glad you are.” She kissed his cheek. He looked at Ken over her shoulder and saw a stone face. “I’m staying involved, Leslie, because I want to know what happened. Just that simple. I need to know what happened.”

  As Smith left the suite and waited for an elevator to take him to his floor, the young Panamanian sat alone in yet another suite in the Watergate, booked and paid for by the Reverend Garrett Kane. Earlier, Colonel Gilbert Morales had been there. Now, Miguel sat on the couch, a soft drink on the table in front of him. Around the glass were various pieces of metal. He picked up a few and began to assemble them. The Pachmayr Colt Model 1911 modular pistol had been delivered to him earlier in the day by one of Morales’s aides. It had cost four thousand dollars, and could be configured to handle .45, .38 Super, or .9 mm ammunition. This model was set up for .38 Super.

  He’d taken the sophisticated weapon apart and put it back together again a number of times. Each time it was fully assembled, he couldn’t help but smile at the feel of it. It weighed only sixty-four ounces. The trigger had a light, crisp pull.

  “Bueno,” he said. As he slowly began to take it apart again. “Guapo. Beautiful, beautiful.”

  31

  “Sure you’ll be all right?” Annabel Reed asked Tony Buffolino after he’d settled into the Watergate suite late Thursday afternoon.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Where are you guys going, out to dinner?”

  “No, I think we’ll have dinner at my house, make it an early night,” Smith said. “Are you sure you’re well enough to stay here alone?”

  “Hey, come on, take a look.” Buffolino pushed himself up from the chair, slipped his crutches beneath his arms, and moved quickly—too quickly—across the vast living room, losing his balance near the kitchen table and grabbing it to keep from falling. Smith and Annabel started toward him, but he said, “No sweat, just have to go a little slower.”

  “Why don’t you call one of your ex-wives and invite her up for dinner?” Smith said.

  “That’s not a bad idea. Yeah, maybe I’ll do that.”

  “Well, good to see you back, Tony,” Annabel said. “Don’t forget you have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow.”

  “I won’t forget. You’ll be by here in the morning?”

  “No, I’d better put in some serious time at the gallery.” Smith said he’d drop by first thing.

  They were almost at the door when the phone next to Buffolino rang. “Hey, Joe, great to hear from you. How goes it? Yeah, great, I’m doin’ fine. You heard about what happened to me in Frisco. You’re where, downstairs? Sure, come on up. Love to see you.”

  He hung up and told them that Joe Riga had stopped by to see him.

  “That’s nice,” Annabel said, pleased that he would have company. She didn’t have much faith in his ability to coax his ex-wives there on such short notice.

  “See you tomorrow,” Smith said.

  Minutes later, Buffolino and Joe Riga sat on the terrace, drinks in their hands. Washington was clear and balmy.

  “How long you figure this will go on?” Riga asked.

  “What, this case?”

  “Yeah, and everything that goes with it. You’ve got a good deal here.”

  “You’re telling me. This is the best gig I’ll ever have in my life. They broke the mold when they made Mac Smith, believe me.”

  “Oh, I believe you, Tony. I always got along good with Mac. He was a tough defense attorney, but he played fair, gave the profession some class. You should see some of the whack jobs we deal with now. Tell me more about this crazy woman who shot you. You say she was Mae Feldman’s landlady?”

  “Yeah, old buddies. Feldman’s probably as flaky as Madame Zaretski.”

  “Madame?”

  “That’s what I call her. She acts like a queen, only she ain’t. She says she had this big opera career going till she lost her portamento.”

  “Her what? Who did it?”

  Buffolino explained as though the term were old hat to him.

  Riga said, “Oh, portamento. That portamento.”

  “Yeah, that one.”

  “So, Tony, things are good with you,” Riga said.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Nothing changes with me, Tony. The sun goes down, the honest citizens skip the city and the cockroaches come out. You pick up a bunch of the cockroaches, and the DA or a judge tells you to let ’em go. So you let the cockroaches go, the sun comes up and they sleep, the good people come back into the city, and sun goes down and it starts all over again.”

  Buffolino laughed. “Yeah, I guess nothin’ does change.”

  “I heard how you pulled that old photo routine with Morse out at the Buccaneer Motel,” Riga said. “What’d you show him, a picture of Mickey Mouse?”

  “Van Johnson.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “An actor. Come on, Joe, you heard of Van Johnson.”

  “Nah, I don’t go in much for the movies. Sometimes a g
ood cop movie, something like that.”

  “How come you showed the old guy a picture of Paul Ewald?” Buffolino asked.

  “Why not? She had a key to the motel in her purse, and Ewald was the prime suspect. We figured they might have been out there together, so I asked Glass in Rosslyn to run a photo by the owner.”

  “He lied, right?”

  Riga screwed up his face. “No, he didn’t lie. A cop shows him anything, he agrees. We could’ve shown him a picture of Hitler and he would have agreed Hitler shacked up there that night with the deceased.”

  Buffolino laughed. “You still looking close at Paul Ewald?”

  Riga nodded.

  “I don’t think he done it.”

  “Well, that settles it then. We’ll drop him from the list.”

  “Don’t be a wise-ass with me, Joe. Hey, whatever happened to Garcia, that dirtbag who set me up?”

  Riga shifted position in his chair. His brow furrowed. He touched Tony on the knee and said, “You know, Tony, I never had anything to do with that. It was IA all the way.”

  “I know that, Joe. You never did nothin’ to me but good. What about Garcia? He went back to Panama, I heard.”

  “Right. After you took the fall, some of us decided that Mr. Garcia was a stud who shouldn’t be left walking around. We put the arm on him and convinced him he ought to get out of the country, get out of the business. Between you and me, he left in a lot worse shape then you’re in. Last I heard, he was still in Panama.”

  “Too good for him. Guys like that, even if you bust them up, keep the dough and live the good life, while we …”

  Riga grabbed Tony’s arm and shook it. “Hey, you look like you’re doing pretty good. This ain’t exactly skid row.”

  “No, but I’ll be going back to skid row, Joe. This thing can’t last long. Why should Smith hang in?”

  Riga thought for a moment. “There is still the question of who murdered Andrea Feldman. Knowing Mac Smith, I figure he wants to be the one who finds out before he packs it in.”

  Riga’s words seemed to buoy Tony’s spirits, which had visibly sagged. “Yeah, I bet you’re right. Besides, you know what he told me before I went to Frisco?”