Murder at the Kennedy Center (23 page)

“You get what you pay for, Ms. Reed.”

She asked, “How did your client come into possession of this so-called world-shaking information?”

“Irrelevant.”

Should I say “overruled”? she wondered. “Maybe to you, but not to me or to Mackensie Smith. Is your client here in New York now?”

“Ms. Reed, I did not agree to meet you again to answer
your
questions.”

“Fine,” she said. “Then you’ll just have to go ahead and file your suit on behalf of Mrs. Feldman for the loss of her daughter’s civil liberties, and for her pain and suffering.” She motioned for the check.

Although Greist had had a drink on top of what he’d earlier consumed, he seemed more sober than when he’d walked in. He stood and said through slack lips, “You and Mr. Smith are making a grave mistake, and obviously do not have your client’s best interests at heart.”

“I take it the drink is on me,” Annabel said.

“I’m sure your wealthy client provides you with a large expense account. Good evening, Ms. Reed.”

She watched him disappear into the lobby. Was this all one grand bluff on his part, a transparent shakedown, or was there even a modicum of truth behind his threat? The waitress brought the check; Annabel quickly laid more than enough money on top of it and went to the lobby. Greist was gone. She moved to the street and saw, far in the distance, a man across Fifth Avenue, beyond the fountain. It might have been Greist. She ran to the corner, crossed, slowing to a walk as she reached the figure. It was Greist. He was walking east, and didn’t seem to be in any hurry.

She fell in behind him at what she considered a safe distance, thinking of the men that she now was convinced had followed her and vowing to do a better job than they had. While waiting for a light to change at the corner of Park Avenue and Fifty-first Street, she looked over her shoulder and wondered whether the follower was being followed.

Greist went south on Park Avenue, past the barricaded entrance to the Waldorf Astoria, and took a left on Forty-eighth Street. Reed kept pace with him until he turned into
the main entrance of the Inter-Continental Hotel. She quickened her pace until she reached the entrance, checked to make sure he wasn’t lingering inside the door, and entered. Her heart tripped; Greist had stopped by the massive bird cage that dominated the lavish lobby. He was six feet from her. She turned and bent over as though searching in her purse. When she thought enough time had passed, she looked in the direction of the cage. He was gone. She quickly scanned the large, two-level lobby. The raised portion to her left was half-filled with men and women enjoying cocktails while a tuxedoed pianist played show tunes.

Annabel used the bird cage as a screen and looked through it. Greist had joined someone at a table, a woman wearing a black raincoat whom Annabel judged to be in her early sixties, with gray-blond hair cut short. Annabel couldn’t see her full face because of the angle at which the woman sat, and she had absolutely no reason to assume anything, but only one thought came to mind: Mae Feldman.

She lingered a few seconds more, couldn’t hear or read lips, and concentrated on remembering everything she could about the woman. Then she went back out to Forty-eighth Street, keeping her back to where Greist and his companion sat, and made tracks for the Plaza and a chance to get on the telephone.

Mac Smith drove slowly along Route 50 to Annapolis. He wasn’t at all certain whether Janet Ewald would be there, could only hope that she would. He’d tried to call Marcia Mims at the Ewald house but was told it was her day off, which he already knew. Would she be there, too? Again, all he could do was speculate.

He wondered how Annabel’s second meeting with Herbert Greist had gone. Maybe it was still in progress. That was the first call he would make once he’d finished in Annapolis.

This time, he found a parking space close to the building that housed the store and Tommy’s apartment. He looked up at the windows and saw that there was a light on—a positive sign. He got out of the car, locked it, and walked slowly toward the door, realizing that without Marcia and her key, he had no way of entering. He searched for a buzzer but found none, and rapped on the one small window in the exterior door. There was no reply.

Baloney, he thought as he crossed the street and looked up at the windows again. The light was low-wattage. He
waited for ten minutes for some sign of life, a shadow, the movement of someone across the room. Nothing.

He decided to leave his car where it was and walked to Tommy’s. The restaurant was as busy as it had been the previous night. Tommy spotted Smith as he walked through the door, immediately came over to him, put his hand on his arm, and guided him back outside.

“Something wrong?” Smith asked.

“I think so,” said Tommy. “Marcia told me you were coming back tonight. She seemed uncertain whether you’d meet her here at the restaurant or at my apartment, and she decided to wait for you here.”

“Where is she?” Smith asked.

“I don’t know. She had a drink at the bar just before the rush began. I was busy with paperwork in my office. When I came out, she was gone.”

“Where did she go, to the apartment?”

“No. My bartender told me she received a phone call. She hung up and left.”

“You haven’t heard from her since?”

“No.”

“What about the apartment, Tommy? Is …” He wondered whether Tommy knew that Janet Ewald was being hidden there by Marcia. He decided it didn’t make any difference whether he knew or not. “Do you know whether Janet Ewald is still in the apartment? I swung by there and saw a light, but no one answered.”

Tommy shook his head. “Marcia told me why she needed the apartment, but I haven’t heard any more about Ms. Ewald. I don’t know whether she’s still there or not.”

“Look,” said Smith, “will you give me a key to the apartment so I can let myself in?”

“Sure.” He handed the key to Smith.

“Thanks. Be back soon.”

Smith returned to the small building, let himself in downstairs, and knocked on the door to the apartment. There was no answer. He tried it; it swung open easily. The light he’d seen came from an overhead fixture in the small bathroom.

He stood in the middle of the room and turned in a circle, his eyes taking in everything. There was no sign that anyone
had
ever
been there. Everything was neat; a small suitcase he’d noticed the previous night, and had assumed belonged to Janet, was gone.

Then he looked at a table near the door. A manila envelope rested on it. He picked up the envelope and read what was written on it: “Mr. Smith. Take this and keep it safe. Please do not open what is in this envelope unless something happens to me. Thank you. Marcia Mims.”

He left the apartment, got into his car, turned on the overhead light, and opened the envelope. Inside was a book with a blue leather cover. Stamped on it in gold leaf was
DIARY
. He put it back in the envelope, slid the envelope beneath the front seat, and drove back to Tommy’s Crab Cake House.

“Anyone there?” Tommy asked.

“No.” He handed Tommy the key and thanked him. “I’d like to talk to the bartender.”

“Sure.”

Smith introduced himself to Tommy’s bartender and asked if he had any idea who’d called Marcia.

“No idea at all. It was a woman.”

“You answered the phone?”

“Yes.”

“What did the woman say?”

The bartender laughed and shrugged. “Just asked me if Marcia Mims was here. I told her to wait a minute, put down the phone, and told Marcia she had a phone call.”

“Did Marcia seem upset when she got off the phone?”

“I never noticed. She was gone in a flash, left most of her drink sitting on the bar.”

Smith thanked the bartender and Tommy, and drove back to Washington. He put his car in the garage, took the envelope from beneath the seat, and sat in his recliner in the study, the envelope on his lap. The temptation to open it and begin reading was strong, but he decided he’d be stronger. He placed the envelope beneath papers in the bottom right drawer of his desk and hoped there would never be reason to read it.

Then he sat looking at the drawer.

* * *

Senator Kenneth Ewald was winding up a speech in the ballroom of the Willard Hotel to a five-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner of party movers-and-shakers. Always handsome, he was even more so in his tuxedo. Leslie, dressed in a simple but elegant white dinner dress, sat at his side and looked up adoringly. There was an unmistakable renewal of energy in his face and voice as he said, “This is a particularly happy day for Leslie and me. Recently, we’ve had a tremendous personal tragedy enter our lives. A talented and decent young woman was murdered in cold blood, a young woman who served me and the things I stand for so admirably as a member of my staff. Then, as you all know, our only son, Paul, was taken in and questioned about that brutal murder. You can imagine what that did to us as parents. That situation naturally had to take center stage in our lives, disrupting my run for the Democratic nomination. Leslie and I seriously considered dropping out, putting public service on the shelf, and devoting all our energies to helping our son. Fortunately, that wasn’t necessary. Paul was released almost immediately because the police realized he had nothing to do with the murder.”

There was long and sustained applause. Ewald waited until it had subsided before holding up his hands and saying, “Life, as we all know, seldom goes the way we would like it to go. Wilson Mizner said that life’s a tough proposition, and the first hundred years are the hardest.” He looked at Leslie. “We’ve lived our first hundred years this past week, and now that this terrible cloud has been lifted from our lives, are ready to devote our second hundred to winning the nomination in July, the White House in November, and to restoring this nation to one of equity for all, prosperity for all, and a return to the sort of values that the Democratic party has always stood tall and proud for. Thank you so much, and God bless every one of you.” Everyone in the ballroom stood. The applause, cheers, and whistles lasted many minutes. Ken took Leslie’s hand and drew her up next to him. They waved to the crowd, a preview, many thought, of what the scene would be at the Democratic National Convention in San Francisco in July.

Mac Smith, who’d been watching the news on TV, called
Annabel at the Plaza. She told him of her second meeting with Greist, and that she’d followed him.

“What the hell did you do that for? Who do you think you are, Jessica Fletcher?”

“It was a whim, an impetuous act. Our talk was unsatisfactory. I’m glad I did.”

“Why?”

“He went into the Inter-Continental Hotel and had a drink with a woman.”

“So?”

“I think it was Mae Feldman.”

“How would you know that? Have you ever seen a picture of her?”

“No, but the woman he was sitting with is exactly the way I picture Mae Feldman. Don’t ask me to explain, Mac, I just have this feeling.”

“Did you see them leave?” Smith asked.

“No, I didn’t want to take the chance of being seen by him, so I came back here to the hotel.”

Smith fell silent.

“Mac?”

“What?”

“Are you still there?”

“Yes, sorry, my mind wandered for a moment. Look, Annabel, I think you ought to get back here as quickly as possible.”

“I intend to, first thing in the morning.”

Smith glanced at a pendulum wall clock. There were no more shuttles between New York and Washington that night. He said, “All right, but grab the first shuttle in the morning. I’ll meet you at the Watergate suite. I have a temp secretary coming in.”

“Fine. Have you heard from Tony?”

“No, but I haven’t checked the machine at the Watergate. I’ll do that after we’re through. Annabel, don’t take any chances. Stay in the room tonight, and keep the door locked.”

“Do you think I’m in danger?”

“I’m sure you aren’t, but I’m becoming an advocate of the better-safe-than-sorry school.”

He told her about having met Janet Ewald, and what had happened when he went back for their second meeting.

“Where do you think she’s gone now?”

“I have no idea. Frankly, I’m more concerned about Marcia Mims.” He filled her in on that story.

“Have you tried to call her?” Reed asked.

“No. I won’t tonight. She’s still on her day off, but if I can’t reach her first thing in the morning, I’ll start worrying.”

“Well, Mac, we obviously have some pieces to fit together tomorrow.”

“Yes, I’d say that. Okay, my dear, get some sleep. Thanks for getting involved for me. I love you.”

“I love you too, Mac. Oh, by the way, I think I’ve been followed ever since I got to New York. Two men.”

“Jesus, Annabel, why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Because I keep forgetting about it. It happens, and then my mind gets on to other things and I just forget.”

“Describe them to me.”

She did, stressing the fact that they looked somewhat alike, but beyond that were without any unusual characteristics as far as she could see.

“Just blend into the background, huh? Double-lock the door, Annabel. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He called the Watergate answering machine. There was a long message from Tony Buffolino: “You owe me a bonus, Mac, a big one. I’m going out to dinner tomorrow night and to the opera with this fruitcake, Carla Zaretski. Whatta they call it, ‘Beyond the call of duty’? That’s what’s happening here. Anyway, this Mandarin Oriental Hotel is some classy joint. They even give me slippers and a robe.
Ciao!
”

Annabel Reed got into
her
robe and turned on the television news on ABC. There was a promo for the appearance of Colonel Gilbert Morales on
Nightline
that night; she decided she would stay up to watch it. Then there was coverage of the activities of both Democratic candidates. The first item concerned Jody Backus, who’d spent the day in North Dakota, kissing babies and eating fried chicken. He was his
usual jovial public self, and Reed had to admit he had a potent, albeit rough-hewn charm.