Murder at the Watergate (12 page)

“Have you? It’s funny.”

“What is funny?”

“Having a statue of a Mexican hero on Virginia Avenue, right outside the Watergate.”

“It isn’t funny. The city has statues of many great foreign heroes.”

“I think it’s funny.”

A breeze came up, causing her to shudder. It caught his yellow-white, corn-silk hair and sent it flying.

She looked at him and laughed. “Your hair. It’s a mess.” The moon was like a spotlight on his pale, ghostly face.

She turned away, leaned on the railing, and drew a deep breath.

He rammed his right hand into the back of her neck, and in one continuous motion took a step behind, jammed his left hand between her legs from the rear, and catapulted her over the railing. He waited, not looking down, until he heard the dull thud of her body making impact.
Then, slowly, methodically, he wiped her wineglass he’d carried to the roof with a handkerchief and placed it on the slate ground, took a marijuana cigarette from his pocket, lighted it, drew a series of deep drags, and dropped it next to the glass.

A film of perspiration had developed on his forehead. He patted it dry with a handkerchief, replaced the handkerchief in his jacket pocket, placed the roof and patio keys next to the glass and joint at his feet, and left the building, pausing by the statue of Juárez on Virginia Avenue to light a cigarette.

“Buenas noches,”
he said to Juárez, and walked away at a leisurely pace, humming, in the direction of the apartment he was using in the Watergate’s south building.

Homicide detectives Peterson and Jenkins had just entered headquarters on Indiana Avenue after having investigated a savage murder in the southeast quadrant of the District. An estranged husband, with an order of protection against him, had killed his wife with a hammer, then to make sure she was dead stabbed her multiple times with a kitchen knife. They thought they could write their reports, hang around until it was time to call it a night, and head home.

But their boss, Homicide Chief Pete LaRocca, called them into his office. Joe Peterson started to recount the murder they’d responded to when LaRocca said, “Just write it up. Let’s talk about the jumper tonight.”

“We caught it on the radio,” said Wendell Jenkins. “The Watergate again.”

“That’s two there,” LaRocca said.

“The Mexican in the garage. Who went off the roof tonight?” Peterson asked.

“Female, age twenty-eight. Name’s Laura Flores.”

“Flores?”

“Yeah.”

“Mexican?”

“Yeah. Coincidence?”

Shrugs from Peterson and Jenkins.

“Who caught it?”

“Monroe and Silverstein.”

“So?”

“So, I thought since we’re dealing with coincidence, you and them might put your heads together, see if there’s more of a link than where they were born.”

Peterson screwed up his face to indicate he didn’t understand. “Different MO,” he said. “One guy gets it in the back of his head, the lady believes she can fly. What’s the connection?”

“Mexico. The Watergate. That’s enough to at least
not
rule out a connection.”

“Was the guy in the garage hit ever ID’d?”

“Out of our hands,” said LaRocca. “Somebody over at State jumped in because of the guy’s nationality. I hear he was a union organizer back in Mexico. Scuttlebutt.”

Jenkins laughed. “Those union guys lead dangerous lives.”

“Newspaper guys, too, at least in Mexico,” LaRocca said. “They just whacked another one for writing unkind things about the druggies.”

“Maybe we should import them,” Peterson said.

“Import who?” LaRocca asked.

“Mexican hit men. You know, bring ’em in to thin out our reporters. There’s too many of them anyway, and they’re not worth a damn.”

“Any question whether this Flores woman jumped?” Jenkins asked.

“Always a question,” LaRocca replied. “They found an empty wineglass, a half-smoked joint, and keys to the roof gardens where she jumped. Monroe and Silverstein are questioning people in the building. Seems there’s an apartment there rented by some Mexican-American trade group. Doorman says the jumper was at that party. They’re at the building now. Get over and lend a hand, compare notes.”

Peterson and Jenkins looked at each other. As Jenkins was fond of saying, “Sometimes you eat the bear, sometimes the bear eats you.”

“Let’s go,” said Peterson, standing, “and see how the rich and famous live.”

Mac Smith sat at a table for sixteen in the private room that was part of the acclaimed restaurant. Glass partitions had been closed to seal it off from the larger space, but it still afforded sweeping views of the Potomac. The room was decorated in a light lemon color, the carpeting patterned and harmonious. The armchairs were large and comfortable, framed in heavy wood, the cushions an amalgamation of earth tones. On Sundays, an elaborate brunch was served there. This morning, at seven, the political menu was less caloric but meatier.

Only seven of the sixteen chairs were occupied. Conspicuously absent was the vice president. His chief domestic policy advisor, Alex Jankowski, chaired the gathering. He waited until two waiters had finished delivering pitchers of freshly squeezed orange juice, pots of coffee and tea, and trays of bagels and pastries before saying, “The vice president was detained this morning. He’ll try to swing by before we’re through. I speak for
him when I say how much your being here at this early hour is appreciated.”

Mac glanced about the table. Chris Hedras, the VP’s campaign helmsman, was also missing.

Jankowski continued: “I conferred earlier this morning with the VP. We agree that the top item on the agenda, at least for this meeting, is the administration’s eroding union support.”

The program having been established, the six men and one woman weighed in with their thoughts on why organized labor, historically staunchly Democratic, had lately—if years could be termed “lately”—been withholding its support for the administration and, by extension, Joseph Aprile. Mac mostly listened, although he did offer a few comments about how the perception of the administration’s labor policies didn’t necessarily coincide with the reality of them.

“It keeps coming back to NAFTA,” said Susan Kaplan, a former official in the Labor Department, now a signatory to the Aprile campaign. “When Congress slapped down fast-track trade negotiating authority, it took the heat off the unions. But President Scott’s attempts to resurrect it has pushed their paranoia buttons all over again.”

“But Joe Aprile is against fast-track,” someone said.

“True,” said another participant. “But he’s hardly in a position to take on the president over it.”

That led to a debate on just how far the VP could distance himself from the administration on certain issues, particularly international trade.

Jankowski offered his take: “As long as the news out of Mexico continues to be bad, the more imperative it is,
I believe, that Aprile begin somehow to put forth an alternative approach to the president’s trade agenda. Look.”

He laid a batch of newspaper clippings on the table.

“The
Times
,
Post
,
L.A. Times
,
Wall Street Journal
, a dozen others with stories about corruption in Mexico, virtually all involving the drug trade.”

He picked up the pile.

“ ‘Mexico Editor Hurt in Ambush; His Bodyguard and Gunman Die.’ This editor wrote editorials critical of the drug runners. The founder of
La Prensa
was murdered for the same reason a few months back. Here’s another: ‘Crime Against Tourists Rises in Mexico City.’ Know what the figures say? Crime was up thirty-five percent in 1995, thirty-three percent in ninety-six, and climbing. How’s this? The army had to go in and take over a police barracks because it was a hotbed. The army is becoming the country’s only law enforcement agency, and it’s rife with drug payoffs. ‘Drug Ties Taint Two Mexican Governors.’ ‘Drug Connection Links Mexican Military to Abductions.’ ‘Ex-Officer Says He Took Bags of Cash to Mexico Anti-Drug Chief.’ ‘Drug Trade Feeds off Payoffs at Mexico Line.’ ‘Drug Gang in Mexico Outguns Police with High-tech Devices.’ ”

As Jankowski read the headlines, his voice became more strident. Finally, he tossed the clips back on the table. “Seventy-five percent of all cocaine entering this country comes through Mexico and right up our kids’ noses. Mexican drug overlords earn as much as thirty billion a year. They pay off everybody, top government officials, police, the military—”

He sat back and threw up his hands. “As long as this is
the case in Mexico, voters here will be taking a harder look at anyone running for president who turns his back on it in the interest of trade—dollars—money.”

Aprile’s liaison with Congress, Tom Costain, said, “I agree with Alex. But it’s not just what the press is reporting about Mexico. The Republicans in Congress pressing for a hearing into the president’s fund-raising are damned serious about it. Congressman Curtain is vicious. He hates this president, will do anything short of assassination to bring him down. My prediction is that there will be hearings and that they’ll drag on well into next year, maybe even up to the election. What comes out won’t be pretty, and it’ll stick to Joe Aprile like Krazy Glue.”

“More coffee?”

“We need more.”

Jankowski held up an empty pot to a waiter who stood just outside the sliding glass partition. The conversation took a time-out from politics until a new ration of coffee had been served.

“Horrible, what happened to that young woman here at the Watergate this morning,” Susan Kaplan said, refilling her juice glass.

“What was that?” Mac asked, assuming she meant at the hotel.

“You didn’t hear?”

“I left the apartment in a rush,” Mac said.

“She jumped from the roof of the east building.”

“Jumped? A suicide?”

“Seems that way,” Costain said. “Just a quick item on the radio this morning.”

“Seems like this esteemed address is taking its lumps,”
Smith said. “Two violent deaths within a week. Who was she?”

“I hadn’t heard it, either,” Jankowski said.

Others shrugged in response to Mac’s question.

The second round of coffee served, they got back to the issue at hand, the vice president’s Mexico dilemma, and were ten minutes into the second act when Chris Hedras arrived, out of breath and carrying an armload of folders, magazines, and newspapers.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, dropping the pile on an empty chair and taking the adjacent one. “What did I miss?”

“The raspberry Danish,” Jankowski said. “We finished them.”

“Now I know who my friends are.”

Jankowski brought Hedras up to date on what had been discussed.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Hedras said. “I’m listening.”

“Will the veep be here?” Susan Kaplan asked.

“No,” Hedras answered.

“All right,” Jankowski said, “let’s hear from each of you on this problem of the unions backing away from their support.”

The breakfast meeting lasted until a few minutes before nine. Its participants gathered their belongings, walked through the restaurant’s main room, where hotel guests enjoyed breakfast, and down the corridor to the anteroom leading to the hotel’s lower entrance. As Mac was about to break away from the group and go up the stairs to the lobby, Hedras intercepted him.

“A word, Mac?”

“Sure. It was a good meeting, some false starts but productive, I think, at least for our initial get-together.”

“Glad to hear it. Mac, the vice president wondered if you could meet with him later today.”

“Hmmm. I have a few things on the docket, but nothing that can’t be rescheduled. What’s it about?”

“He’ll fill you in. He asks that we keep it between us.”

“Not a problem. Where and when?”

“His office at the White House. Two o’clock.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Great. Your name will be at the gate. Have them call me. I’ll come out and get you.”

Smith watched Hedras scurry away, legs moving fast, body bent forward to pick up added momentum. What a delirious life it must be for someone like Hedras, he thought. Look up “rat race” in the dictionary and the illustration is someone running for president of the United States, and those around him running even faster.

He picked up a newspaper in the lobby and sat at the empty Potomac Lounge’s bar. The attractive, young Asiatic bartender came from behind the back bar and asked if she could get him anything.

“No, thanks.” He considered having another cup of coffee, but decided to wait until he got home. Mackensie Smith was a self-acknowledged coffee snob; even the Watergate’s coffee was not up to his standards. “A club soda, please. Wedge of lime. I’m thirsty.”

He scanned the paper and sipped his drink, enjoying the half-hour respite. As he turned the pages, he wondered about the purpose of the afternoon’s meeting. Probably had to do with his upcoming trip to Mexico, he decided.

He skimmed the sports pages—the Orioles were in a tight race for the pennant; George Foreman had come out of his most recent retirement and knocked out another journeyman heavyweight; and the Redskins had signed a free-agent lineman with mediocre credentials to a two-year contract worth seven million. Smith shook his head. He was about to leave when a small item inside the first section caught his eye. It was about the young woman who’d fallen to her death the night before from the east building. It reported only that the event had happened, that her name was Laura Flores, and that she was Mexican and worked in Washington. The police were investigating.

“Mexican,” Mac muttered to himself as he stood and placed money on the bar. The man shot to death in the parking garage had been Mexican. Joe Aprile’s campaign for the presidency seemed increasingly to hinge upon his posture toward Mexico. The Mexican national elections were coming up, and he and Annabel would be there.

Funny, he thought, as he left the hotel through its main entrance and headed for his apartment in the south building, how once you became interested in something, it seemed to be everywhere. Consider buying a certain model car and that’s all you seem to see on the streets. Enjoy a play by an unknown playwright and his name suddenly appears in every newspaper and magazine.