Murder in the Smithsonian (24 page)

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure, but listen, thanks anyway.” He handed Carter back the keys.

“Any time, Joe. Hey, you’re sure you’re not sore at what happened in there? Just havin’ some fun.”

“Million laughs, Johnny. Drop in some day. Lunch is on me.”

“Yeah, I will.” He turned conspiratorial. “Hey, Joe, Brooke here’s got a friend who…”

“Good for her, Johnny. Well, enjoy, see you…”

Pearl waited for Killinworth, followed him home, lingered a half hour, then went to his own apartment, where he called Mac Hanrahan at home.

“Find out anything?” Hanrahan asked.

“No, Mac. I’ll give you a full report in the morning.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not pulling that duty tomorrow, am I?”

“No.”

“Good. Then I won’t call in sick.”

Two eight-year-old kids were doing a brisk business in fireworks around the corner from MPD headquarters. Hanrahan stopped on his way to work and examined their merchandise. “It’s illegal to sell this stuff,” he said.

One of the kids told him to get lost.

“Watch your language,” Hanrahan said as he walked away. He hoped his nephews wouldn’t have firecrackers at the Fourth of July family picnic, which was two days away. He’d ended up the heavy last year when he took them away.

Sergeant Arey was on desk duty. “Mornin’, Captain,” he said as Hanrahan pushed through the glass doors.

“Arey. What’s new?”

“Not much. Can I ask you something? What’s the chances of getting off on the Fourth? They’ve got me down for nine-to-four.”

Hanrahan looked at him. “You know I never get involved in duty rosters outside homicide.”

“Yeah, I know, but I figured maybe you’d put in the word, I like being home on the Fourth.”

Hanrahan was tempted to switch with him. It would
be worth it to get out of the picnic. Ever since his divorce he dreaded the annual event, found his relatives boring and nosey and, in some cases, even smug and cruel. Kathy would be there this year. One of his kids called and told him so.

“Just thought I’d try, Captain,” Arey said.

“No harm in trying, Arey.”

He hung up his jacket, got coffee from the bullpen and settled behind his desk with the morning paper. There was an editorial critical of the MPD’s handling of the Tunney murder. What especially rankled him was:

By the time Joe Pearl walked into Hanrahan’s office a half hour later Hanrahan was, as Kathy used to say, a cross between Attila the Hun and Henry VIII.

“Hey, Mac, have dinner with your mother last night?” Pearl said it with a smile.

“No, Joe, and one more wise-ass comment from you will put you back checking parking meters.”

“Sorry. Well, here’s the rundown on my day with Killinworth.”

“Don’t bother. He called a few minutes ago. What did you do, Joe, hand him your business card?”

“What?”

“He demanded to know if he was being followed.”

“Mac, I’m sorry about that… it was on account of that fool Johnny Carter—”

“And you slashed his tires.”

“What?”

“Carter called too, says you cut two of his tires.”

“That’s ridiculous. You know Carter. He’s a psychopathic liar—”

“I told him as much. Considering the way you’ve handled this assignment, though… well, I got some other calls too, Joe. Commissioner Johnson, for example.”

“Oh?”

“Oh yeah. He wants us to be sure than nothing unfortunate happens between now and the Fourth. The vice president is concerned that the celebration not… how did he put it?… not ‘sully the American spirit of the Fourth’…
sully
, Joe. Your kind of talk. No matter what, no sullying. Got it?”

“Yeah, I—”

“Did you read the funny papers this morning?”

“No.”

“‘For shame,’ they said. Our record on the Tunney case was the object of their affections.”

“What else? I mean what else turned you into Attila the Hun this morning?”

“Never mind… tell me about Killinworth.”

Pearl read his notes to Hanrahan. When he was through he said. “What’s with Janis Dewey, Mac?”

“Meaning?”

“What’s her connection with the Tunney murder?”

Hanrahan ran his hand over his beard. “I don’t know. Did you pick up on what she and Killinworth were talking about?”

“No. I kept a low profile.”

“Real low, Joe. According to Killinworth you wore a sandwich board announcing your profession.”

“It wasn’t
that
bad.”

“Bad enough. You say Janis Dewey seemed flustered?”

“That’s the way I read it. She looked like Killinworth hit her with something fairly heavy.”

“Any idea what it was?”

“I couldn’t hear.”

“But you know he had a ham sandwich, and she had a shrimp salad.”

“I could
see
that.”

Hanrahan shook his head, picked up the phone. “Get me Alfred Throckly at the National Museum of American History.” He looked at Pearl. “Call Janis Dewey. Get her over here this afternoon. Make it three o’clock, and growl at her on the phone. You should be able to handle that, Joe.”

When Throckly came on the line Hanrahan said, “Mr. Throckly, Mac Hanrahan from MPD. Hold on a minute.” He pulled a computer print-out from the Tunney file. “Mr. Throckly, I have a question for you.”

“Yes?”

“I tried to reach you a few days ago. Your secretary said you were away.”

“That’s right.”

“Where did you go?”

“I don’t think I’m under obligation to answer that—”

“Want me to put you under obligation?”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“There’s no need for threats, Mr. Throckly. I called your office, your secretary said you were away. I asked where you’d gone. She told me England. I thought to myself how nice that sounded, getting away to jolly old England for a few days.”

“I thought the same thing, Captain—”

“Yeah, sure. How did you get there, Mr. Throckly?
I checked passenger manifests between New York-Washington and London. I missed your name.”

“I don’t quite follow—”

“I had reasons for checking those manifests, Mr. Throckly. Some nasty things going on in London recently. I wanted to see who was there that I knew when they were happening.”

“And you found that I
wasn’t
there. What good fortune.” He laughed.

“Not necessarily, Mr. Throckly. Where
were
you?”

It took Throckly a beat or two to say, “Can I depend on your discretion?”

“You can’t
depend
on anything with me, Mr. Throckly, but then again, I’ve never been known as a great conversationalist.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Well… actually, I told people I was going to Europe so that I could find a few days’ peace and quiet. I needed to get away. The fact is, I never went further than Georgetown.”

“Where did you go there?”

“To a friend’s home… I read a book, slept, ate and, as they say, recharged batteries that were running low.”

“Who was this friend?”

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t know. You tell me and I’ll have a better idea.”

“If I tell you the name of my host, will it somehow get him involved in your Tunney investigation?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Throckly. But it would help
your
story.”

“I don’t appreciate the implications of that, Captain. But, all right, I was at the home of an old friend, a Mr. Norman Huffaker.”

Hanrahan was tempted to mention the arrest sheet from Vice on Ford Saunders and this same “old friend,” Huffaker, but decided not to. “Well, sorry you didn’t
get to Europe, glad you found some rest. Thanks for your time and your cooperation…”

Hanrahan’s switch to noncommittal pleasantness seemed to make Throckly uneasy.

“Is there more to this than you told me?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know, I just have this feeling that—”

“Mr. Throckly, I spend most of my working days and nights asking questions and getting answers that have nothing whatsoever to do with anything.” True enough, but he was pleased to see Throckly’s failure to be reassured.

“All right… if I can be of any help, please don’t hesitate to call.”

“Count on it, Mr. Throckly.”

***

Hanrahan went over the passenger manifests again. His staff had done a thorough job. The name of every transatlantic passenger between Washington–New York and London were on the sheets. It had been a shot, one he had to take. He’d hoped to see a name from the Tunney investigation that could be linked to the Ashtat murder, but that hadn’t happened. The absence of Throckly’s name, however, had caught his attention…

“Mr. Huffaker?” Hanrahan said when his call was answered.

“Yes.”

“This is Captain Mac Hanrahan, Washington MPD.” Silence. “Mr. Huffaker?”

“Please, leave me alone.”

“Sorry, but I need to talk to you.”

“Good God, what have we come to?”

“What?”

“A man is entitled to live his private life
in
private,
not be harassed because of his sexual preferences. It’s not only unconscionable, it’s unconstitutional.”

Hanrahan wanted to be patient and was tempted to take on the issue Huffaker had just raised, but this wasn’t the time to indulge himself in philosophical debate. “Mr. Huffaker, I want to question you about the Lewis Tunney case.”

“Oh, my God, you can’t be serious.”

“What time would be convenient for you?”

“I don’t know, I… not here, for God’s sake. I don’t need any more police cars with sirens and flashing lights in my driveway. I’ll come to you.”

“Fine. An hour?”

“God, no, I’m not even up yet. This afternoon. Could I come by at two?”

“Sure. You know where we are.”

“I think so. Your name was…?”

“Hanrahan, Mac Hanrahan.”

Hanrahan hung up wishing he had a tap on Huffaker’s phone. The nasty conversations with Throckly and Ford would be interesting.

Joe Pearl called. “Janis Dewey will be here at three. She’s upset, Mac. I thought she was going to cry.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Commissioner Johnson called and asked whether Hanrahan was free for lunch. “No,” Hanrahan said. He quickly left his office and drove to Connecticut Avenue, N.W., went down a flight of steps that looked like they led to a subway station, pushed through a door and was in Jo and Mo’s, a favorite steak house. One of the owners kidded him about the editorial, about his tie and the extra pounds he’d put on since he’d last been there.

“Drink?” a waiter asked after telling him the latest and worst Polish joke.

“Gin on the rocks.”

He sipped his drink, chewed on a thick piece of dark pumpernickel, doodled on a lined yellow legal pad. He checked his watch a half hour later, waved a waiter to the table and ordered a rare sirloin, fried onions and another drink. He never stopped writing, making numbered lists with lettered subcategories, drawing arrows to connect words and names, chewing his cheek as he worked, looking up only to check on who’d come through the door.

His steak arrived. He sliced into the meat, took a bite and glanced up at new arrivals. Leading a party of four was Commissioner Johnson, who spotted Hanrahan immediately, excused himself from his luncheon companions and came to the table.

“Commissioner,” Hanrahan said.

“Eating alone, Mac?”

“Yeah. My date stood me up.”

“Tough. Real tough.” Johnson sat down. “What’s with this Killinworth character?”

Hanrahan put a portion of steak in his mouth, holding up a finger as he chewed.

“Looks good,” Johnson said.

“Best in the city.” Hanrahan added half an onion ring to what was in his mouth and savored the combination. “Killinworth is a fat, pompous pain in the ass, Cal. Along with that, he pretty much heads my list of suspects in the Tunney case.”

“He wasn’t even at the party.”

“Maybe he pulled the strings. All I know is that there’s too much about him that keeps me awake nights. He gets my ten-Tums rating.”

Johnson shot his cuffs. “He’s lodged a complaint.”

“Yeah, I know. He called this morning.”

“He told me he had. He claims you didn’t give him any satisfaction.”

“That’s his version. What was I supposed to do,
offer an out-of-court settlement because he’s offended at being tailed?”

“Who’d you put on it?”

“Joe Pearl.”

“Evidently Pearl wasn’t very subtle.”

“You might say that.” Hanrahan attacked his steak again.

“Mac.”

“What?”

“Lay off. I’ve already told you that.”

Hanrahan swallowed. “Lay off what? Killinworth? The others on the list? I’m supposed to be investigating a murder at the Smithsonian. What I hear is lay off. That’s a no-win deal.”

“Maybe so, Mac, but I’m telling you again, slow down. Let the Fourth slide by and make everybody happy.”

“Does it make
you
happy, Cal?”

“Happiness isn’t written into my job description.”

“Who’s on your back this time, besides Killinworth?”

“Would you believe the vice president of the United States? It seems your fat pompous ass complained to him, too.”

“You’re joking.” Hanrahan told a waiter that he didn’t want dessert. “Killinworth calls the vice president because he’s sore at being followed by MPD?”

“Seems so.”

“And Oxenhauer listened to him? What is this? What does the V.P. do up there in the White House, take complaints and give refunds on duplicate Christmas gifts?”

Johnson looked across the room to where his party had been seated. He put his hand on Hanrahan’s arm. “Don’t let me down, Mac. There’s more at stake here than a single case.” He got up and joined the others.

Hanrahan paid his check, defended himself against a mock right cross from one of the owners and stepped out into the intense midday heat and humidity, wishing he were back in the dark, quiet cool of Jo and Mo’s. If he hadn’t had appointments back at MPD, if Johnson weren’t there he might have scooted back inside, called in sick and spent the rest of the day drinking gin and exchanging tall tales at the bar. But that would have to wait, probably until his retirement. He popped a Tums into his mouth, started the engine and thought about Kathy, the kids and the upcoming Fourth of July picnic. It seemed his life had somehow come unstuck so fast he never even had a chance to watch it happen. Or maybe he wasn’t paying enough attention…