Murder at the Kennedy Center (37 page)

“I don’t know how to relax. Hey, Mac, let me ask you a straight question.”

“What is it?”

“Are we gonna stay on this thing for a while? I mean, if this job is about to end, I’d better start making some plans.”

“To be honest with you, Tony, I don’t know how much longer we’ll stay involved. Outside circumstances will determine that, I suppose. In the meantime, don’t worry about it. You’re still on the payroll, and I’ll give you plenty of notice. Fair enough?”

Buffolino grinned. “You’re always fair, Mac. Thanks.”

Before leaving the suite, Smith dialed his answering machine at home. There was an urgent message from Dr. Geoffrey Collins. Smith returned the call.

“Good to hear your voice again, Mac,” Collins said. “It’s been a while.”

“Good to hear you, too, Geof. I got your message. What’s up?”

“I just got off the phone with Janet Ewald.”

“You did? Where is she?”

“She said she was in Florida. I think I’ve convinced her to fly back here tomorrow morning and to come to my office. She mentioned she’d seen you, and when I asked whether she wanted me to call you, she said she did.”

“This is good news, Geof. Do you think she’ll actually show up?”

“I have no idea, but I would like you to be here if she does.”

“Of course. Keep me informed, call anytime.”

Smith said to Tony Buffolino, “That was the psychiatrist who’s treated Janet Ewald. She called him from Florida and said she’s coming back tomorrow. I’d just as soon she return of her own volition, but I don’t have much faith in that. Can you put out some tracers in Florida? Let’s assume she’s in the Miami area, although she could be anywhere in the state.”

“Sure. I got a friend in the airlines who owes me. They don’t give out passenger manifests, but he’s broken that rule for me a couple a’ times. If she used her own name, I can get it. I’ll give Joe Riga a call, too, and see if his pals can come up with something.”

“Good. I’ll check back in with you after the party.”

Smith and Annabel went to a suite in the Georgetown Four Seasons where a cocktail reception for Ken and Leslie Ewald was in progress. This was a smaller gathering of a half-dozen movers-and-shakers in Washington’s artistic community. A hundred lesser lights would be downstairs later.

“Any prepared remarks for me?” Ewald asked Ed Farmer.

“Prepared remarks for these people? All they want to do is shake your hand and hear you tell them how much their support means to you. Your Senate record on funding the arts makes you a hero to them. Just play hero.” Smith smiled at Farmer’s comment, although the campaign manager had delivered it, as usual, without any levity of tone. Farmer frowned at Smith and walked away.

Ewald and his entourage went downstairs to the larger affair where Smith and Annabel were introduced to a few people at the door, then drifted to a corner to watch Ewald work the room. Smith had considered telling Ken and Leslie about the possible return of Janet, but thought better of it. Wait for a quiet moment, when no one had to be onstage.

It was just another party until Ed Farmer captured the attention of most of the people by saying in a loud voice,
“Ladies and gentlemen, I know the next president of the United States, Ken Ewald, would like to say a few words.”

The whoops and hollers rose to a crescendo, and then died as Ewald said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I can say honestly to you that I’ve been to a lot of rubber-chicken-and-rice dinners. I’ve shared times like this with hundreds of thousands of people in many states, and will have to do the same in the months ahead, but never have I enjoyed an hour more than this.” Applause. Ewald’s hands held high in the air, Leslie beaming at his side. “As I stand here, what keeps running through my mind is the adage that many of you, especially in theater, live by. ‘The show must go on.’ This campaign—this
show
we are in the process of producing—has run into many out-of-town trials and tribulations. We’ve had to rewrite as we went, change scenes, juggle adversity—to say nothing of unexpected and unhappy surprises—but here we are ready for the convention, and I can tell you that
this
show is now ready for a long run, thanks to creative, caring people like you.”

Smith looked at Annabel and smiled. “Prepared remarks?” he said. “He’s better on his feet.”

Ewald continued. “We took some battering a while back because of circumstances beyond our control. Now we have control again, and everyone in this room who cares about the cultural aspects of this society we share can rest assured that not only do I intend to win the Democratic nomination in July, I intend to become the next president of these United States. And as president, I will do everything in my power to help shift this society from one of hate and prejudice and misunderstanding to one in which the beautiful music can be heard once again, the magnificent words of our writers and poets can be heard, and the gentler aspirations that a society rich in culture fosters will be with us for at least four years and, hopefully, far into the future.” He waited until the applause had ebbed, and concluded with, “This beautiful woman at my side has been my inspiration throughout the difficulties of this campaign. My main opponent is a gentleman with whom I’ve served for many years in the Senate. Senator Backus is a good man who loves this country as much as I do. The difference is that in an
administration such as we now have in Washington, there is no room for beauty and culture, because most of the attention and most of the money are focused on destructive things. Don’t misunderstand. We must have a strong and secure nation in order for the beautiful things to grow, to blossom, but there must be something else in a society if it is to be judged generations from now as one of compassion and love. Senator Backus represents an anachronistic view of how we take America and move it forward into the light, rather than into the shadows. What more can I say, except to say thank you from me and from Leslie and from every man and woman who has worked so hard to see their dreams—and your dreams—become reality once again. When November eighth is over, I promise you one thing … we will all gather again, only this time it will be in the White House, and we will raise a toast to the future of this free industrial, agricultural, commercial,
and
cultural giant … the United States of America!”

Many of those in the room tried to reach Ewald as he and Leslie made their way to the door, preceded by Farmer and Secret Service agents. Mac and Annabel didn’t try to catch up with them. They lingered, watched, and, once the Ewalds and official followers were out of the room, made their own way to the lobby.

“What do you think?” she asked.

Smith shrugged. “I have my reservations about Ken, but I keep coming back to the conviction that he’s a hell of a lot better than the alternative. Yes, I’d like to see him in the White House. I think some good things must come out of it.”

When they returned to the Watergate suite, Buffolino told them that his airline friend found no passenger between Washington and Miami by the name of Janet Ewald. “Funny thing, though,” he added. “Riga called me. His people have been checking manifests, too, and he said they ran across a passenger flying to Miami from D.C. by the name of Andrea Feldman.”

Smith said, “The Andrea Feldman we know isn’t taking trips anywhere these days.”

“Yeah. Kind of spooky though, huh?”

“Try checking it through,” Smith said.

Annabel turned on the TV. Buffolino said, “I think I’ll go downstairs and get a drink. I’m getting cabin fever here.”

Buffolino went to the lobby, which was bustling with well-dressed people—a typical Watergate crowd, he thought. There was a group of Japanese tourists, a familiar sight in every city in America. An aristocratic couple with regal bearing waited at the elevator, he in a tuxedo, she in a floor-length ball gown bursting with sequins. He then saw the same slender, nicely dressed Hispanic young man they’d seen on their floor earlier in the day. He thought of Smith’s comment, that he was probably a member of hotel security, and decided Smith was right. He acted like a plainclothes security guy, his eyes taking in everything and everyone. Still, Tony didn’t like it. Then again, all Hispanics made him uneasy since the night he’d been set up by Garcia. He had to admit that, and he did as he went to the bar and enjoyed a leisurely drink by himself. I hope this booze goes right to my thigh, he thought; it’s killing me.

Mac Smith had never believed in the observation that the great leveling factor was putting on pants one leg at a time. For him, it was paying bills, and that unpleasant task, long neglected the past weeks, was what he focused on the next morning. It seemed a good chore to undertake while waiting for a phone call from Geof Collins about whether or not Janet Ewald had arrived.

Annabel called him from her gallery to see if he’d heard. “No. I think I’ll call him,” he said, looking up at the clock. It was noon.

“You’ll let me know as soon as you find out anything.”

“Of course. How are things this morning with your little stone friends?”

“My little friends are fine. I’ve missed them. They’ve gotten dusty, poor things. James is an asset, but I suspect he doesn’t do windows, and I
know
he doesn’t dust. Talk with you later.”

Smith’s call to Collins was disappointing. Not a word from Janet. “No idea where in Florida she called from?” Smith asked.

“None whatsoever, Mac. She’s very fragile, very enigmatic. I’ll be relieved when we do hear from her.
If
we do.”

“You and a lot of other people. Mind if I call again in a couple of hours?”

“Not at all.”

He was writing out a check against his monthly tab at the Foggy Bottom Cafe when the phone rang. It was Buffolino, who wanted to know what the plans were for the rest of the day.

“Frankly, Tony, I haven’t made any. Annabel and I are going to the testimonial for Ken Ewald tonight at the Watergate.” Smith laughed. “How do politicians stand it, one dinner after another, plaques that never get hung up on the wall, bone-crushing handshakes, fattening foods, and having to suffer fools always looking for something from you?”

“Takes a certain kind a’ guy.”

“Yes, it certainly does. Anyway, there is that dinner tonight we’re going to. We’ll stop up at the suite before.”

The last of the bills paid, and after a lunch of two hard-boiled eggs, sliced tomatoes, Bermuda onion, and bread-sticks, Smith headed for the Yates Field House for a workout. During the drive, he thought about the contest between Ewald and Backus for their party’s nomination. He also admitted to himself for the first time that he’d begun to question Ewald’s ability to lead the nation. Did his friend lack the necessary strength of character? Smith had never viewed it that way, preferring to chalk up any perceived weaknesses in Ewald as representing simple human frailty, a concept that was dear to Smith’s heart. As he got older, he’d become more tolerant of his fellow man (and woman, of course), and of the human dilemma.

But running for president of the United States demanded less “humanity,” didn’t it, someone with fewer foibles than the pack? Ken Ewald was
very
human—good enough for a friend, but was that good enough to lead the greatest nation on earth? Smith puffed his cheeks and expelled the air in a burst. “Who knows?” he muttered. “Who knows anything?”

He thought of Backus, whose political views were anathema
to him yet who seemed to possess those traits necessary, perhaps, to lead effectively. Ironic, he thought as he pulled into the parking lot, that his kind of human being might be the best qualified for the White House.

While Smith ran and lifted weights and thought about him, Senator Jody Backus reached Washington, Virginia, after slightly more than an hour’s drive. There were few cars parked in front of the Inn at Little Washington, and they were what one would expect to see there—two Jags, two BMW’s, and a Mercedes limousine.

He paused at the main entrance to the inn and looked back at the empty road. This was the first time since he’d announced his candidacy that there wasn’t at least one other vehicle trailing behind, usually filled with Secret Service agents. He’d really had to put his foot down to get them off his tail today. Thank God for Jeroldson, who took the responsibility for letting him go off on his own for a couple of hours.

Backus knocked on the door of the largest suite in the ten-room inn. It was opened by a young man who said, “Come in, Senator. We’ve been expecting you.”

Backus had met this boy before and didn’t like him. His name was Warner Jenco. A head of carefully arranged blond curls formed a helmet above his placid face. His suit, shirt, and tie were as bland as the rest of him.

Backus stood in the middle of the living rrom. “Where is he?” he asked.

“On the phone, Senator. He’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Tell him I don’t have all day.”

Jenco disappeared into a bedroom. Backus went to the window and looked out over the Blue Ridge Mountains; they might have been painted there for the visual entertainment of guests, who paid top dollar for the suite. A profound sadness came over him. The mountains reminded him of his home in Georgia, where as a boy he’d spent countless days roaming them. How long ago that seemed; he saw himself—a chubby, barefoot kid with the bottoms of his overalls rolled up—wading in a crystal-clear trout stream, a sort of Mark Twain–Norman Rockwell kid. Those were good days, when he was a good kid.

The moment of reflection calmed him. Now, as he paced the large room, waiting, his anger returned. Easy, he told himself. You’ll have a heart attack. He took deep breaths. His face was red; he could feel his heart pumping in his large chest.

Just as he was about to go to the door and bang on it, it opened, and the Reverend Garrett Kane entered the living room. The smile that lighted up millions of television sets across America was in place as he said in his deep, cultured voice, “Jody, how good to see you.” He closed the gap between them and extended his hand. Backus looked at it, and a sour expression crossed his face. Kane kept his hand extended, the smile never dimming. Backus finally took it, pumped once, let go.