Murder at the Kennedy Center (8 page)

“Really? I’m due out there myself. Mind if I join you?”

Riga laughed, and Smith could see his face, those large, yellowing teeth with the gap in the front. “Sure, why not.
I have to get a formal statement from you anyway, something I neglected to do last night. I’ll meet you there.”

“Fine.”

“Hey, Mac, I keep meaning to ask you every time I talk to you whether you ever hear from Tony.”

“Buffolino? No.”

“Last I heard, he was working private in Baltimore.”

“Yes, I heard that, too. Funny, somebody else asked about him recently, too. Good man, Tony.”

“Matter of opinion. Maybe we can catch a drink after we leave Ewald. My treat.”

“I’m not sure I’ll have time, Joe—I’m meeting Annabel for dinner—but let’s play it by ear. You’re buying? I like that, and if we don’t get to do it tonight, I’ll remind you of it on a regular basis.”

Smith hung up, stretched out on a couch in his living room, and for the moment thought of Anthony Buffolino, one of his last clients as a practicing criminal attorney.

Tony Buffolino had been a Washington MPD detective, a good one, everybody said. He’d had a clean record for fifteen years, a drawerful of citations of merit, letters from appreciative citizens and local politicians, no hint of being on the take, a good cop. Then, after taking three slugs in his right leg—two in the thigh and one in the knee—in a shootout during a bank robbery, he was told he was being retired on full pay. That wasn’t what he had in mind. He fought being pensioned off despite constant jibes from fellow officers who dreamed of such a situation for themselves, and despite the pleas of his second wife, who hated seeing her husband leave home each morning and never knowing whether he’d return. He went through extensive physical rehabilitation, passed the physical, and continued on the force as a detective assigned to a special unit formed to combat Washington’s growing drug trade. That was when all the trouble started, personal and professional.

Smith got up after ten minutes on the couch, shaved, and drove to the Ewald house. He wanted to get there before Riga.

He had trouble reaching the front gate because of the number of vehicles parked outside the house. There were
mobile vans from local television stations, automobiles belonging to a variety of reporters, and two MPD squad cars, their uniformed occupants seated glumly inside them. He was passed through the gate by a private security guard. As he drove up in front of the house, he noticed that the video surveillance camera was in place up on the portico.

Marcia Mims, the Ewalds’ head housekeeper, escorted him to the study. “I’m early, Marcia,” Smith said. “Any problem?”

“They’re upstairs, Mr. Smith. We’ve nothin’ but problems. But not you. I’ll tell them you’re here.”

A few minutes later, Leslie Ewald came to the study. Her eyes were puffy; she’d been crying.

“I came early, Leslie, because Detective Riga told me he had an appointment with you and Ken this afternoon.”

Her response was to press her lips together, cross the room to a desk, and lean heavily on it with both hands. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she said in a low voice.

Smith came up behind her. “It’s a dreadful thing, Leslie, this suspicion, but it’s not yet an accusation, and you and Ken will see it through.”

She turned and looked into his eyes. “Mac, things are moving so fast.”

They sat in facing chairs. “Obviously, Leslie, the police have to talk to everyone who could possibly have knowledge about what happened to Andrea. Even if the weapon weren’t involved, the fact that she was on Ken’s staff would be sufficient reason to have detectives talk to him. Have you spoken with Paul?”

“Of course. He’s upstairs with Ken. They’ve been arguing all afternoon.”

“About what, or is that none of my business?”

“To me, it’s very much your business, Mac, and I’m personally deeply grateful that you’re here. Janet has disappeared.”

“When did you find that out?” Smith asked.

“This morning. Paul said she packed a bag and left.”

“I see,” Smith said. “Any idea where she might have gone?”

“None whatsoever. Janet is … well, to be kind, Janet
is not the most rational of women, especially when the pressure is on.”

“You mean …?”

“Yes, I mean Paul’s affair with Andrea, and the fact that he never came home last night. Lord knows where Janet would go, or what she would do.”

Smith pondered it, then said, “The police will want to talk to her eventually.”

“I know that. I suppose we’ll have to tell them. When Detective Riga called to arrange to see us, he asked that the four of us be present.”

Smith forced a smile and slapped his hands on his knees. “Detective Riga could arrive at any moment, Leslie. I would like to talk to the three of you before he gets here. Could you have Ken and Paul come down?”

“Yes, of course.” She called Marcia Mims and asked her to get them. “Not only is this an awful tragedy for that poor girl, and for us as a family, it could be a tragedy for the campaign. Ken had to cancel an appearance this afternoon. He’s flying to Philadelphia tonight.”

“Are you going with him?”

“Yes. You can imagine the questions the press will have for us at every step.”

“Let’s not worry about the press now, Leslie. I’m more concerned that everyone here is in sync.”

Ken and Paul Ewald came in, and Smith launched into a series of questions that he anticipated would be asked by Riga. He realized he was back in his old role as a defense attorney, preparing witnesses, trying to head off surprises: “Where did you keep the weapon that was used to kill Andrea Feldman?” “Who had access to it?” “When did you last see it?” “Where was it?” “Why wasn’t it secured?” “Where were each of you at the time she was killed?” “Can anyone verify your actions during that period of time?” “How well did you know the deceased?” “Was your relationship with her cordial, or had there been a recent strain?”

The list went on. When he was done, he realized some of the answers did nothing to divert suspicion, not just from Ken or Paul but from any of them. No one had an alibi, but Paul had the biggest problem. He claimed he’d had a
fight with his wife and had taken a drive into Maryland for quiet time to think. Yes, he’d had an affair with Andrea Feldman, and, yes, Janet knew about it and had reacted vehemently and emotionally. No, he had no idea where she was. A suitcase was gone from her closet; her car was gone, too. He was very concerned about her, he said.

“Has she often just disappeared like this, Paul?” Smith asked.

“I wouldn’t say often, Mac, but it has happened before. Frankly, I’m worried about what she might do to herself.”

“Is she suicidal?”

“There have been threats, although I think they were just that, attention-getting outbursts. Still, I may as well level with you. Janet has some psychological problems.” He looked at his father, who said nothing. “She’s been under treatment for quite a while with Dr. Collins.”

“Geoffrey Collins?” Smith said. “I know Geof.”

Paul stood and walked the length of the room, came back halfway, and said, “Look, I’m so sorry about all of this. I know there’s absolutely nothing I can say to either of you to explain it away, or to make it better. I … I had an affair, and she’s dead now. I know you don’t need this kind of complication running for president, Dad, and I would give anything, including my life, if I could go back and make this not happen.”

Smith looked at Ken Ewald. Although the senator gave his son a reassuring smile, he obviously did so with some effort.

When Smith asked the senator what he had done following the gala, his answer was terse: “I went to my office across the street and worked until early in the morning. The gala took too much time out of my campaign schedule.”

“And you say this Secret Service agent, Jeroldson, was with you the whole time.”

“Yes. I mean, I wasn’t sitting with him. I was in my office with the door closed, and he was out in the waiting room, the way it always is.”

“Riga will want to confirm that with Jeroldson,” Smith said.

“Good. Let him. This whole thing is ridiculous. Obviously,
no one in this family, or in this household, killed Andrea Feldman. Someone must have broken in, or entered the house under false pretenses and walked out with the pistol.”

Smith sighed and recrossed his legs. “Ken, that is always a possibility, but it is, I’m sure you’ll admit, a farfetched one. The fact is that Riga’s spotlight may sooner or later shine directly on Paul here. As a family friend and unofficial legal adviser who’s had some experience in criminal law, I can tell you the evidence is all circumstantial, but still Paul’s defense, if he has to make one, is pretty shaky. He had access to the weapon, was sleeping with the deceased, had a wife who was furious about it, and can’t account for his—or her—whereabouts.”

“Then let them charge me,” said Paul, stalking to the door. “I can’t do anything about that.”

“Don’t leave,” Smith said, pointing his finger at him. “Riga expects the three of you to be here. It’s bad enough that Janet won’t be present. That’s going to take some explaining in itself.”

“I’ll be upstairs,” Paul said. He closed the door with considerable force.

Joe Riga was accompanied by two younger detectives. Riga was a tall man with a paunch, who wore his black hair slicked back. He handed his raincoat to Marcia Mims and accepted Leslie Ewald’s offer to make himself comfortable. His assistants, still wearing their coats, took chairs outside the circle that had been formed by Riga, the Ewalds, and Smith.

“Sorry to take your time, Senator,” Riga said. “I guess running for president must have you on the go.”

“Yes,” Ewald replied dryly.

“I’ll try to make this as quick as possible, Senator,” Riga said. He nodded at Leslie and Paul to assure them he had them in mind, too.

He went through a list of questions, all asked by Smith during his briefing. Riga was a good interviewer, knowing when to respond to keep an answer going, but most of the time showing no reaction to what was being said, just a few
grunts and “ah-hahs,” like a Freudian listening to a five-times-a-week patient on the couch.

He asked Leslie to account for her whereabouts at the time of the murder. She said she’d gone to bed following the gala, and assumed none of the household staff would refute that. Riga asked whether any of them could confirm it, rather than just not refute it, and she had to admit they couldn’t. “They don’t tuck me in,” she said rather curtly.

Riga’s next series of questions was directed at Ken Ewald. When Smith had asked him about his actions following the gala, Ewald had summed them up quickly. Now, in response to the same question asked by Joe Riga, Ewald went into great detail about what he’d done in his office that night, right down to the memos he’d dictated, notes he’d made, and telephone calls he’d placed.

“We’ll want to see a log of those calls, Senator,” Riga said in a tone that was neither threatening nor suspicious.

“Of course,” Ewald said. “I’ll see that you get it, although some of them are highly sensitive in regard to my campaign. I’m sure you can understand the need for discretion in how they’re used.”

“Sure,” Riga said. “You say this agent’s name is Jeroldson?”

“Yes, Bob Jeroldson. He isn’t assigned to me exclusively, but I seem to end up with him a great deal.” Ewald laughed, and Smith sensed the falseness of it, wondered whether Riga had, too. “Jeroldson is a strange type,” Ewald said, “although I suppose all Secret Service agents are a different breed.”

“How so?” Riga asked. Smith half smiled to himself; never make a statement unless you’re prepared for a follow-up question.

Ewald slid over the question like the good politician he was, saying only that Jeroldson seemed to be a brooding, private person.

“Goes with the job, I think,” Riga said, offering his own less-than-spontaneous smile.

“I suppose so.”

A half hour later, after Paul Ewald had responded to all the detective’s questions, Riga seemed to have had enough.
He said he wanted to come back the next day to interview household staff, and would also want to spend time with those members of Senator Ewald’s campaign staff who had easy access to the house and, by extension, to the Derringer used to kill Ms. Feldman.

After Marcia Mims had been summoned with Riga’s raincoat, he looked at Paul Ewald, who sat with what could only be described as a challenging expression on his handsome face, and said, “You know, Mr. Ewald, I’m going to have to talk to you more.”

Paul told him he’d be happy to cooperate in any way.

Smith had suggested before Riga arrived that Janet’s absence be handled casually, without resorting to an outright lie. “Just say she isn’t here, and you don’t know where she is,” he said. “No sense giving the press or the police something else to chew on.” That’s the way Leslie handled it when Riga asked about Janet, and he seemed to accept it for the moment. At least he hadn’t pressed it.

But now, as he prepared to leave, Riga said, “Please have your daughter-in-law call me the minute you hear from her.” He handed a card to Leslie Ewald. “I figured this was a tight family, that you’d know where everybody is all the time, especially when somebody you know’s been murdered.”

Ewald laughed. “This is a typical American family, running in different directions and trying to find time to sneak one meal a week together.”

“Yeah, I know how it is,” Riga said. “Thanks for your time and cooperation. By the way, Senator, how’s the campaign going?”

“Fine, until this happened,” Ewald said.

“I suppose the best thing for you is to get it cleared up as fast as possible.”

“It certainly is, and I appreciate the fact that you recognize it,” Ewald said.

After Riga and the others were gone, and Leslie and Paul had left the study, Smith sat alone with the senator.

“I have to tell you, Ken, Riga’s got a suspicion; maybe a rumor. There’s going to be a lot more focusing on Paul.”

“I gather that.”

“And I suggest we find Janet as quickly as possible.”

“My sentiments exactly, Mac. I’ve never been particularly fond of her. She’s so damn flighty, a very difficult person.”