Murder at the Pentagon (29 page)

Wishengrad, who’d brought his half-glasses down to his nose, pulled a piece of paper from a folder. “This is a list of weapons systems the Pentagon has been pushing us to fund,” he said. “I’ll give you one as an example, Mr. Ambassador: Project Safekeep.” He glanced up over his glasses. “Israel has expressed quite an interest in it.”

“For good reason,” Elaha said.

“It won’t work,” said Wishengrad.

“That conflicts with reports we’ve received.”

“You’ve received reports from the same sources the Pentagon has, namely those who stand to make big bucks from it. Are you aware that this committee has been investigating that particular project for over a year now, and is about to hold hearings?”

“Rumors. I’ve heard rumors.”

“Why would Israel be interested in buying something that won’t work?”

“Whether it will work or not is a matter of opinion, of course. The evaluation of such systems is, unfortunately, tainted by political needs rather than scientific and military considerations. When Mr. Reagan was president, Republicans supported Star Wars. They claimed it would work. Democrats scoffed at the concept. Politics. Hardly the basis upon which to judge sophisticated devices that might one day save a nation.”

They debated the issue for another half hour. When the meeting had ground down to an obvious inconclusion, and those at the table had stood and shook hands, Wishengrad said to Elaha, “I promise you one thing. I may have picked up the label of being antidefense, but I don’t deserve it. I like to think I call my shots where defense spending is concerned, based upon what I perceive to be real need. No doubt about it, Mr. Ambassador. The sad fact that one of your neighbors is sitting with the nuclear capability to wipe Israel off the
earth is not lost on me. I appreciate your coming in, and your candor about your position. Rest assured I’ll use my best judgment when it comes to tossing a couple of billion more to our Pentagon friends.”

At two, Starpath lobbyist Sam Caldwell left the office of his attorney, Thomas Betterton. He hadn’t expected to be there so long. But once seated with the distinguished Washington attorney, whose clients included a veritable Who’s Who of prominent Washingtonians called before congressional committees, it was evident that it could not be a short meeting. Or cheap.

Caldwell left Betterton’s office aware of two things; his fatigue, and the sober realization that what he was faced with was a lot more serious than he’d anticipated.

His driver took him to the Four Seasons Hotel on M Street, on the fringe of Georgetown. Caldwell went inside and called Joe Maize at the Pentagon.

Maize asked in a hoarse whisper, “How did it go?”

“Piss-poor,” Caldwell said. “We’d better talk.”

There was palpable fear in Maize’s voice. “Did you discuss me?” he asked.

“Damn right we did. I’m at the Four Seasons. I’ll settle into the lobby and have a drink. Be here before I finish it.”

He’d started his second drink when Maize, looking nervously left and right, handkerchief dabbing at perspiration on his large, round red face, crossed the lobby. Maize wore a tan suit; sweat darkened its armpits. He sat on the love seat next to Caldwell. “Sorry I’m late, Sam. I couldn’t just walk out. Had to make an excuse. Traffic was lousy.”

Caldwell looked at him with disdain. “What are you afraid will happen to you, Joe, by walking out in the middle of the afternoon? Losing your job?”

“No—I just didn’t want people to wonder why I was leaving. I told them I had a personal errand.”

“You might call it that,” Caldwell said. His eyes were heavy; stubble on his cheeks and chin contributed to his weary look. A pretty young waitress in a long flowered dress
asked Maize for his order. “Just club soda. Put a little lime in it,” he said.

“Put a lot of scotch in it,” Caldwell told the waitress. She glanced at Maize, who nodded. “Scotch and soda. That would be fine.”

Caldwell had picked a corner that was partially obscured from the rest of the lobby by potted plants. Both drinks were now on the table. Caldwell shifted his large frame on the love seat and glowered at Maize. “Wishengrad’s got more than I thought he had. I figured he was on a fishing expedition, putting on a show for the folks back in Wisconsin. But he’s got more gear than just a fishing expedition. He’s got himself the kind of case prosecutors kill their mothers for.”

“Jesus,” Maize said, hunching over and holding his drink in both hands. He asked without looking up, “Betterton told you that?”

“That’s right. He had a meeting yesterday with the committee’s special prosecutor, that knee-jerk former prosecutor from Wisconsin, Wishengrad’s old buddy Harry Love. Love laid it on the table for Betterton—documents, phone tapes, and transcripts, along with everything that son of a bitch Joycelen fed them before he went out.”

Maize glanced up. “Did he have those things about me? Tapes and documents?”

“Sure as hell did, Joe.”

Maize drained his drink. “Did Betterton tell you when the hearings would start?”

“No. He doesn’t know. Love claims it’s still up in the air, if you can believe him. I know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“That I’ve got me and my client the best attorney in town. I suggest you try to find the second best.”

“Some timing, huh?” Tony Buffolino said to Margit as he came up behind her outside Smith’s home.

He’d startled her. She turned quickly and saw who he was; relief replaced apprehension. “Right on time,” she said.

They sat with Smith in his den. “Where’s Annabel?” Margit asked.

“At the gallery.” Mac Smith, who was behind his desk, took a sip of coffee, smacked his lips, and looked directly at her. “Still want to pursue this?” he asked.

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Okay. But before we get to that, let’s deal with the fact that someone is sufficiently interested in Margit Falk to follow her, or have her followed.”

Margit shook her head. “I still have trouble accepting that, Mac. Who? Why?”

“Tony can help with the ‘who.’ ” Smith looked to Buffolino.

“Got to be a government agency, Major.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I checked the plate Mac gave me. The car’s not registered to anybody. That means government. FBI. CIA. DEA. Military intelligence. The old soldiers’ home.” He laughed at his own line. “Government agencies got hundreds, maybe thousands a’ cars like that. Legal plates, but registered to nobody.”

Margit exhaled long and loud.

“Can you inquire into what agency might be behind it?” Smith asked.

“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Margit replied.

Neither did Mac Smith. “We can explore this a little later. Let’s get to the business at hand. Margit wants to hire you, Tony. To dig into people involved in the Cobol case. It won’t be easy. Much of it is inside the Pentagon, or so it seems. I suggested you bone up on it before we met tonight. I assume you have.”

Buffolino had worn his best suit, shirt, and tie for the occasion. “I did my homework, Mac,” he said. “I figure I don’t know everything, but the major here can fill in the blanks.”

“I’m sure she can,” Smith said. “Margit, what is it you want Tony to do specifically, at least to get started?”

She replied, “Joycelen is the key to unraveling this.” She looked at Buffolino. “What I’m trying to do, T—may I call you Tony?”

“Call me whatever,” he said.

She smiled. “I’m convinced that Cobol did not murder Joycelen, nor do I think Cobol hanged himself. But the pseudosuicide is not my main concern at this moment. Cobol’s family, particularly his mother, who lives in New York, wants very much to clear his name. I hope you can help me.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Mac and I felt that the best way to start was to try and gain a better understanding of Joycelen’s life, and the people surrounding him, especially those who might have had more of a motive to murder him than Cobol did. Cobol didn’t have
any
motive, as far as I can determine.”

Buffolino adjusted a white French cuff that extended beyond
the sleeve of his midnight-blue suit jacket. “Unless he was a spook. You know, CIA, FBI, one of those organizations. Maybe Joycelen isn’t the place to start.”

“You have a better suggestion?” Smith asked.

“I just figured it might make more sense to start with Cobol, probe his background a little.”

“I don’t think so,” Margit said. “I’m attempting to do some of that myself within the military, which you couldn’t do. The way I see it, with you investigating outside and me working inside we stand a better chance of coming up with something.”

“Whatever you say,” Buffolino said. He looked at Smith. “You agree, Mac?”

“I suppose so, although it makes me a little nervous to hear you put it that way, Margit. I don’t think you should be overtly ‘working’ at this. You’re going far enough out on a limb as it is.”

“Let’s just say I intend to keep my eyes and ears open.”

Smith’s grunt was noncommittal, but Margit knew there was displeasure behind it. Maybe concern. She preferred that.

Buffolino said, “Tell me what you already know about Joycelen.”

“Okay,” Margit said. She ran down what she could from the newspaper clippings, and told Tony of her brief and unpleasant interview with Christa Wren. As far as she knew, she said, Cobol had no more than shaken Joycelen’s hand at a CIA briefing.

“You think maybe this Christa Wren had a reason to kill Joycelen?” Buffolino asked.

“Possibly,” Margit said. “According to her girlfriend, Joycelen was abusive to her. Wren was at the picnic, and admitted she’d been inside with him.”

Buffolino added to notes he’d been taking. “What about his ex-wives?” he asked.

“I never got to speak with them,” Margit said. “I intended to, of course, but Cobol’s sudden death changed that. Along with a lot of things.”

“They can stay on the back burner,” Buffolino said. “For now. Anything else?”

“I don’t know how far you can get with this,” Margit said, “but Cobol saw a psychiatrist in New York. His mother said he came home from visits with the psychiatrist acting a little strange.”

“When me and Alicia was seeing a shrink, we came home acting strange, too,” Buffolino said. “They make people strange.”

“Yes,” Margit said, glancing at Smith. “The good ones make some people less strange, too. Maybe you could find out something about him. His name is Marcus Half.”

“Funny name,” Buffolino said, writing it down. “If you want, I can arrange to bust in, maybe grab Cobol’s file. I know this Peterman in New York who …”

“Peterman?” Margit asked.”

“Yeah. Lock-picker. Safecracker. The best.”

“I don’t think that would be prudent, Tony,” said Smith. “One Pentagon Papers caper is enough. Maybe you could just do a little legitimate investigating into Dr. Half’s background.”

“Whatever you say.” Buffolino stood. “I’ll get started soon.”

“When?” Mac said.

“Tonight,” Tony answered, standing.

Margit flinched. Until that moment it had all been conceptual, a cause to be contemplated. Now, it was rudely real. All she had to do was to change her mind, write off Joycelen and Cobol and everything that had happened to her because of them. All she had to do was to make a simple decision—that she would get back to being a lawyer and helicopter pilot in the United States Air Force, back to the way she’d been before that fateful day at the Pentagon picnic. The Cobol-Joycelen episode had been of such short duration. If she tried, she could excise it from her life.

Never sell out
.

She said to Buffolino, “Fine. We haven’t discussed your fee.”

“Usually, I get three hundred a day. But because Mac’s involved—and it’s for you—we’ll make it a deuce. Okay?”

Smith smiled. “Generous, Tony. I’ll remember it the next time you ask for four.”

Buffolino flashed Margit a craggy, warm smile and put his hand on her shoulder. “Hey, I know this is important to you. Frankly, if I was you, I’d write it off, but maybe you see this like some kind a’ battle. You know, like a warrior. I respect that. I’ll do my best. We’ll keep in touch. Through you, Mac?”

“Right,” Smith said. “You shouldn’t have any contact with Margit except in this house.” To Margit: “Agreed?”

“Makes perfect sense,” she said.

“I won’t call you at the Pentagon,” Smith told her. “You call me. Your quarter. Spend lots of them.”

“See ya,” Tony said.

“What’s your rush?” Smith asked.

“I’m in no rush. Why?”

“I have an assignment for you aside from investigating on Margit’s behalf.”

“Shoot.”

“I want you to make sure nothing happens to her.”

“Mac, please, I don’t think …”

“Listen to me, Margit,” Smith said. “I can’t, Tony can’t—no one can watch out for your well-being when you’re at work or at home. But when you come to
my
home, I want to make sure you get to
your
home, in this case Bolling Air Force Base. An old-fashioned rule of etiquette.”

Margit couldn’t suppress the smile. “A form of knighthood,” she said.

“And I’m your knight,” Buffolino said, matching her smile.

“Something like that,” said Smith. A vision of Tony in knight’s armor flashed into Smith’s mind, and was gone as quickly. “Mind if Margit and I have a few minutes alone?” Smith asked the investigator.

“Nah. Of course not. I’ll hang outside.”

“Thanks, Tony. Only for a few minutes.”

When Buffolino was gone, Margit said to Smith, “That drink you offered earlier. Still available?”

He poured two brandies, and they sat quietly in the study. “I want you to know, Margit, that I respect you for what you’re doing.”

Her chuckle was gentle. “Respect me—but question my intelligence, Prof?”

“Wrong. I don’t want to see you hurt. I don’t want to see this splendid military career you’ve forged sputter because of this.”

“Colonel Bellis, my boss, told me he felt fatherly toward me.”

“I’m not saying the same thing,” Smith said. “It would mark me as a lot older than I like to admit.” He paused. “But I do care about you. So does Annabel. Chances are, Tony can do his number, and none of your superiors will ever know he has. In the meantime I’ve been doing some digging on my own. There are certain legal avenues that might be explored to force a reopening of the Joycelen murder. Of course, these are civilian roads to travel. Whether they’ll hold up in the military system of jurisprudence is another matter. But I think they’re worth pursuing.”