Murder at the Kennedy Center (7 page)

“I heard in the cab what happened last night,” she said. “How horrible. You knew her?”

“Yes. Some. I worked with Andrea Feldman on the gala committee. Smart as a whip. She’d been on Ken’s staff for about a year. It was a shock to everyone.”

“I heard Brian Burns on WRC quoting the police as saying they have a lead in the murder.”

“Really? They say who?”

“No. I think they said there’d be a press conference tomorrow morning. The cabbie started talking, and I missed the rest.”

“There are some upsetting aspects to this where Ken is concerned,” Smith said.

“Yes, the cab driver told me the weapon belonged to Ken. Does that mean …?”

“They’ve traced it to him already? I didn’t know that.” He mentioned his scheduled five o’clock meeting at Ewald’s house.

“I thought we were having dinner.”

“We are, after I see Ken and Leslie. Feel like Italian? I thought we’d go to Primi Piatti.”

“Too heavy,” she said. “I’ve been wanting to go back to Nicholas.”

“Fine with me. See you there at seven?”

“You aren’t picking me up?”

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be with them.” When she didn’t say anything, he said, “Seven. At the bar. We’ll have a drink. I’ll make a dinner reservation for seven-thirty.”

“All right.”

Rufus roared his desire for a walk as Smith hung up. “In a minute,” he said, dialing a number.

“WRC,” a woman answered.

“Rhonda Harrison, please. Mac Smith calling.”

“Hello, Mac, canceling lunch on me?”

“Of course not. Look, someone just told me that Brian Burns reported a break in the Feldman case.”

“Right,” she said. “Brian got it from a source at MPD.”

“Specifics?”

“No, except having found the weapon. It was registered to Senator Ewald.”

“Is there a press conference tomorrow?”

“Supposedly, although we can’t confirm it. Another MPD surprise party.”

“A surprise press conference?” Smith laughed. “Should produce a hell of a crowd. Can I talk to Brian?”

“He’s in the booth. Want him to call you?”

“If he has any hard news. I’ll be out for ten minutes. Thanks, Rhonda. See you at lunch.”

As he walked Rufus, Smith felt the surge, the charge, and realized that events last night had opened a small valve in his body, releasing a shot of adrenaline. He was ambivalent about the sensation. Before he’d retreated to the life of a college professor—a decision he made shortly after his wife and son were killed by a drunk driver on the Beltway—those valves used to open all at once, sending a rush of energy and excitement through him. He lived for those moments, was sustained by them.

Not anymore. Those valves had been rusted shut for a time, and he’d become used to doing without the juices.

Until now. This moment.

Rufus pulled on his leash in all directions, large nose to the ground bombarded by the scent of leaves, stilted grass, bricks and concrete, iron railings wet-marked as calling cards by previous visitors out for a walk, and discarded fast-food wrappers, several of which Smith picked up and tossed in a neighbor’s garbage can. “Slobs,” he muttered.

Rhonda Harrison was seated at the Foggy Bottom Cafe’s small bar when Smith arrived. The restaurant, located in the River Inn on Twenty-fifth Street N.W., was packed. Groups of people waited in the hotel’s lobby for tables to open.

“Hi, Mac,” she said as Smith managed to squeeze in behind her.

“Hello, Rhonda. They must be giving away the onion rings.”

“Looks like it.” She was an attractive woman in her early thirties. Inky hair cropped close made her small cordovan face seem larger than it was, and the overall effect was pleasing.
She’d been with WRC for six years, and in that time had established herself as a tough but fair reporter who had the knack for getting a news source to talk, and who could find in a story an angle others missed. Besides broadcasting, she’d also been doing a considerable amount of writing lately, long, substantial investigative pieces for magazines.

“Mr. Smith,” the bartender said over the multiple conversations along the bar. “Your usual?”

“Sure.” He turned to Rhonda. “Want some onion rings to get started?” She nodded, and he added them to his drink order. Soon a heaping plate of one of the inn’s specialties stood next to Harrison’s Bloody Mary, and the glass of Tecate beer with coarse salt and lime that had been served Smith. “Health,” he said, raising his glass.

She returned the toast.

“What’s new?” he asked.

“Personal, professional, family, or the Andrea Feldman murder?”

“Your choice, but if we opt for Feldman, let’s take a walk.”

“Sure, okay, let’s see,” she said in a voice that was familiar to her listeners. “I have fallen madly in love with the man who will be my husband as soon as I get up the guts to ask him out. I got a raise yesterday. My agent sold a piece to
Esquire
. My family, what’s left of it, is fine. Okay? That’s my capsule update.”

Smith placed a large hand lightly on her shoulder. “I’ll be invited to the wedding, of course.”

“Of course.” She looked around; no one was paying particular attention to them. She leaned close to Smith’s ear and said, “Your friend the senator is in some mess.”

He hadn’t expected such a direct statement from her, and his hesitant response testified to his surprise. “Tell me about it,” he said.

“I was going to ask you the same thing. Rumor has it that you’re smack dab in the middle of it.”

“Who’s putting that out?”

He felt a shrug of her slender shoulders beneath his hand. “MPD, some press sources. Brian told me.”

“Time for that walk,” he said. He told the bartender
they’d be back, and they went outside. He asked what Brian Burns had told her.

“That you’ve been called in to handle defense in the event someone in the family is charged with her murder.”

“That’s news to me, Rhonda. Last I heard, nobody’s been charged with anything.”

“I know that, Mac, but the scuttlebutt is that the MPD is looking very seriously in that direction. What will you do, take a leave of absence from the university?”

“Washington, D.C.,” Smith growled, “a city of tightly guarded, widely circulated secrets. Where did they find the weapon?”

“I have no idea.”

“They sure traced it fast.”

“Not hard. It was registered. At least they can’t arrest him for possessing an unregistered handgun. Maybe that’s part of his anti-National Rifle Association shtick—own a gun, if it’s registered.”

“Small victory.”

“Any of what I’ve said so far true?” she asked.

“Bits and pieces. Are you going with the story?”

She nodded. “We’re trying to put together something for tomorrow morning. Care to comment?” She reached into an oversized purse and pulled out a tiny tape recorder.

“Nope.”

“Denial?”

“Nope.”

“You know what, Mac?”

“What?”

“The shocker to me is that you’d get involved.”

He knew that if he
did
get involved, Annabel would have the same reaction.

“Mac.”

“What?”

“You suggested we meet for lunch, not me. What are you after from me?”

He grinned. “I was going to see what you knew about the Andrea Feldman murder. I didn’t have to probe much, did I?”

“Not with me. I’m a fan, always have been since you
treated this new kid in town with respect during the Buffolino case. Ever hear from him?”

“No. Last I knew, he was living in Baltimore.”

“Mac.”

“What?”

“You didn’t have to probe me for what I know about Feldman. Do me the same favor.”

“You’ve got it all. I can’t add anything.”

“Have you met with the Ewalds?”

“Yes.”

“Are they concerned that one of them might be charged with Andrea Feldman’s murder?”

Smith hated to lie to her, but he had to. “No, nothing like that was discussed.”

“What about the weapon? Did Ewald indicate it was missing?”

“Rhonda, I really can’t talk any more about this.”

“Will you give me first crack at an interview? If a charge is brought?”

“Of course not.
If
I were to become involved, and
if
what you think is true, I’d be one hell of a lousy defense attorney talking to the press about the case, even to such an outstanding and beautiful member of it. And since I am not officially involved, I certainly don’t have any news value.”

“Can’t blame a reporter for asking.”

“Blame? You’re good. I
will
promise you that if there’s anything I can do for you, I will. Come on, let’s finish off the onion rings—why do they remind me today of handcuffs?—and order a couple of salads.” He squinted at his watch. “I have a meeting to get to.”

“A meeting about the Feldman case?” she asked after they’d returned to their seats at the bar.

“No, a meeting about faculty appointments, tenure, and such—deadly, deadly dull.”

Harrison picked up a small clump of the crusty onions in her long, slender, brightly tipped fingers and held them to her lips. Her expression as she looked at Smith was half-amused, half-skeptical. “Do you know what my gut instincts tell me, Mackensie Smith?”

“I would be delighted to know.”

“My instincts tell me that we are about to have a bombshell dropped on this city and on Ewald’s campaign. And they also tell me that I am sharing onion rings with one of the major players.”

Smith winked at her. “All I can tell you, Rhonda, is that you are sharing onion rings with a man who gave up the active practice of law a while back and is blissfully happy in his life as college professor.”

“Bull!”

“Even if I were tempted to become involved in a case again, I would have to do it under the threat of dismemberment by my significant other, Annabel Reed. You’ve never met Annie, have you? I really should introduce you two someday. You’d get along.”

“Not if she knew I was mad about you.”

They had their salads at the bar. As Smith laid bills next to his empty plate, he said to Rhonda, “This was a more productive lunch than I anticipated. Knowing you’re ‘mad about’ me has made my day. And now that I do know it, I think I’ll keep you and Annabel far away from each other. She’s … bigger than both of us. Thanks for joining me, Rhonda. Looks like I’d better tune in WRC in the morning.”

Smith had no sooner sat down at the conference table with his faculty colleagues when the Feldman murder was brought up. “What’s new with that, Mac?” one of them asked.

“How would I know?”

“Come on, Mac, you found the body, and you’re an insider with the Ewald family. They’re saying on radio and TV that you’ve been retained in the event anyone from the family is charged. You’re a major—”

“Player, yes, so I hear. Okay, I found the body, much to my dismay. To be more accurate, my dog found the body. I have not been retained by anyone. I am very much an outsider and intend to keep it that way, if I can manage it.”

“Did you spend time with the deceased at the gala?” another asked.

“Yes. A little.” Smith checked his watch. “Good music,
a hell of a show. Could we get on with this? I have other appointments.”

After Smith left the meeting, one of the professors said, “Sometimes I find it difficult to deal with his arrogance.”

The law school dean, Roger Gerry, replied, “The right to be arrogant is earned. Mac Smith has earned that right. But it’s confidence and competence you see, not arrogance. He carries it all rather nicely, I think.” Gerry adjourned the meeting, a tiny, satisfied smile on his face.

“Mac, Joe Riga.”

“Hello, Joe, thanks for getting back to me. How’s it going?”

“Too damn busy. Here I am with a year to retirement, and you and that beast of yours have to find a body in front of the Kennedy Center. What can I do for you?”

“I was just wondering whether you’d come up with any leads. I heard on the radio—”

“You should know after years of being a defense attorney that anything said on the radio about a murder isn’t true.”

“Not necessarily. I heard on the radio that you found the weapon.”

“That’s right.”

“Where?”

“A couple hundred feet from the body, in the bushes. It’s registered to your friend Senator Ewald.”

“Yes, I heard that, too.… Prints?”

“Clean.”

“I understand you’re holding a press conference tomorrow morning. I hate to wait that long like ordinary citizens to get all the sordid details.”

“What makes you out of the ordinary in this matter, Mac? Is it true that if anybody from your buddy’s house is charged, Mackensie Smith is back in action as the crusading defense attorney?”

There was no sense in making flat denials any longer, so Smith said, “Could be. I don’t know yet. What are you announcing tomorrow at the press conference?”

“There is no press conference. We canceled.”

“Why?”

“A mistake. We thought we had it nailed down, but something didn’t pan out. We’re working on it. What did you know about the deceased?”

“Very little, just that she was smart, hardworking, good-looking—and very bright, in fact. Funny, but I was thinking this morning that I never heard much about Andrea’s life, her background, family, that sort of thing. Then again, I really didn’t work with her until we helped put together the gala. She was assigned from Ewald’s staff to help coordinate things.”

“She have any boyfriends?”

“I’m sure she did.”

“You were there at Kennedy Center. You talk to her, see her hanging around with anybody?”

“Nothing in particular. Saw her talking, dancing. She danced a lot. She was a good dancer. Caught everybody’s attention.”

“Not just for her footwork. Who’d she dance with?”

“A couple of young, nice-looking men. They all looked clean and wore conservative suits.”

“And maybe one of them got his hands dirty.”

“Maybe. Look, Joe, are you working on the assumption that somebody in the Ewald camp killed her?”

“Mac, I’m working on the assumptions, number one, that somebody killed her, and number two, that the gun used traces to the Ewald house. I’m going out to their house in about an hour.”