Murder at the Watergate (13 page)

“Mexico,” Smith said aloud.

A nation of masks, as Nobel prize–winning Mexican poet Octavio Paz had described it.

“We lie out of pleasure and fantasy,” Paz had written, “just like all imaginative people, but also to hide and
protect ourselves from strangers. Lying has a decisive importance in our daily lives, in politics, in love, in friendship. By lying, we not only pretend to deceive others, but also ourselves.… That is why denouncing it is futile.”

Mac took Rufus for a walk after returning home. They circled the Watergate complex, the dog stopping every few feet to smell the grass and bushes, Mac’s thoughts going nowhere in particular. It was when they reached the statue of Benito Juárez on Virginia Avenue, and Mac saw police yellow crime scene tape securing a small area on the ground next to the east building, that his mind focused. He looked up to the roof. Now all he could think of was the young woman falling from it. What thoughts were racing through her mind as she fell? Did she scream? Were her arms and legs extended, or was she curled into a fetal position? Did she hit headfirst, or on her legs, ramming them up into her body?

He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he found himself suddenly desiccated. Sadly, he said to his dog, “Let’s get home, Rufe—where it’s safe.”

Peterson and Jenkins had spent six hours with fellow detectives Monroe and Silverstein questioning people in the south wing of the Watergate’s east apartment building. It hadn’t been productive.

The lobby clerk confirmed “the young lady” had gone up to the party at approximately eight-thirty. He hadn’t seen her again.

“How long did the party last?” Peterson asked.

The clerk gave a shrug. “Had to be before midnight ’cause that’s when I went off. They were all down by then.”

“How do you know all of them were down?” Jenkins asked. “Did you count them when they went up?”

“No, but—”

“But you figure most of them had come down by then,” Peterson offered.

“Right.”

“Who replaced you?”

He gave a name and a phone number.

Neighbors of the apartment in which the party took place had nothing to offer, except that things had gotten noisy at one point.

“I don’t like having an apartment used only for parties,” an elderly woman said. “People should live in apartments. Nice people. Families. Married people.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

None of the neighbors had seen anyone from the party.

Before leaving the building, Peterson got a call from Chief LaRocca: “Grab some breakfast, then get over to the Mexican-American Trade Alliance, talk to whoever was at the party from there. I just called. They’re in on Saturday. Get a list of other guests. Check in when you’re through. It’s in the Watergate six-hundred office building, on New Hampshire.” He gave Peterson several names.

Peterson and Jenkins went to a McDonald’s and settled in a booth with coffee, juice, and breakfast sandwiches. Jenkins ordered two sandwiches and ate them quickly.

“So how come Monroe and Silverstein get pulled off?”

Peterson’s laugh was wearied. “Looks like we’re the designated Mexican team, Wendell. Better enroll in Berlitz.”

Wendell Jenkins leaned back and worked his neck against a stiffness. He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, and said, “This doesn’t square with me, Joe. The jumper didn’t live in that building but she ends up with a set of keys that open the doors to the roof. She goes up
there by herself, smokes a joint, drinks wine, then jumps? Who gave her the keys?”

“Maybe she’d been there before, knew where they were hanging.”

“Could be. The lobby clerk says there were a couple of dozen people went up to the party. Wish they’d had to sign in, sign out.”

“It’d help. You want something else, Wendell?”

The heavy black detective grinned. “I could eat a couple more but I won’t. Gotta keep up with the diet. Or keep down with it.”

As they were about to get into their car, Peterson asked, “How can you be on a diet and wolf down two of those sandwiches?”

“Usually, I’d have four. See, I’m doing great. I cut the calories in half. Come on, let’s get this over with.”

The Mexican-American Trade Alliance’s managing director, Venustiano Valle, showed the detectives into a small, cluttered conference room where Rosa, the receptionist, served them strong coffee. Windows at one end of the room looked out over New Hampshire Avenue and the Kennedy Center. Another wall was covered by a relief map of Mexico. Crooked photographs of PRI politicians, and industry leaders, hung haphazardly on the wall opposite, making for odd symbolism, Jenkins thought.

“A great tragedy,” Valle said after taking a chair across the oval table from them.

They’d decided that Jenkins would ask the questions while Peterson took notes.

“Tell me about this apartment in the east building,” Jenkins said.

Valle extended his hands; the corners of his fleshy lips curved downward. “A corporate apartment,” he said. “For visiting dignitaries, and occasional social occasions.”

“This is a corporation?”

“No. We are an association.”

“Lobbyists.”

“Yes.”

“Registered?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you had the apartment?”

“Less than a year.”

“Must be pretty expensive.”

“Not as expensive as using hotels.”

“I suppose not. What was the purpose of this party last night?”

Another gesture for understanding, and a guttural laugh. “Since when do Mexicans need a reason for a party?”

Jenkins and Peterson gave him a hard stare.

The smile disappeared. “We wished to thank some of our friends who have recently been helpful in our work. That is all. To thank them.”

“You have a list of who was at the party?”

Valle frowned. “Perhaps not a formal list. I could ask Rosa to bring what we have.”

“Yeah, do that.”

A few minutes after Valle called, Rosa entered the room carrying a piece of paper on which names were handwritten.

“Give it to them,” Valle said.

Peterson scanned the names, looked up, and asked, “Are these the ones who were invited, or the ones who actually showed up?”

Valle looked to Rosa.

“The ones who received invitations,” she said.

“Written invitations?” Jenkins asked.

“No,” said Valle. “They were called.”

“Uh-huh. Mr. Valle, did you spend time with Ms. Flores at the party?”

“Yes. We joked.” To Rosa: “Thank you. That will be all.”

“About what?”

“My young assistant. He and Ms. Flores had seen each other a few times.”

“Dated?”

“Dated? Oh, yes, dated. I joked that she kept him out late.”

“She was in a good mood?”

“She seemed to be. Well …”

Peterson looked up from his notepad. “Well,
what
?”

“I sensed a certain sadness in her.
Tristeza
.”

“What was she sad about?”

“I do not know.”

“Was she still there when you left the apartment?”

“Yes. I left early.”

“This assistant of yours. What’s his name?”

“Chapas. Jose Chapas.”

“Is he here?”

“Yes. Would you like me to get him?”

“When we’re done with you.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Valle escorted the melancholic Jose Chapas into the conference room. Peterson and Jenkins noted that he seemed anxious, had difficulty meeting their eyes.

“Thanks for coming in,” Peterson said. “Only take a few minutes.”

“About Laura,” Chapas said, head lowered, focus on the floor.

“That’s right,” Jenkins said. “We understand you and she were dating.”

Chapas looked up. “Dating? Like a boyfriend and girlfriend? No. We were friends, that’s all.”

“That’s not what we hear,” Peterson said, a deliberate edge to his voice.

Chapas looked down again, not responding.

“Did you bring Ms. Flores to the party?” Jenkins asked.

“No.” His voice picked up animation. “I was at the party working. She came alone.”

Peterson said, “I see she isn’t on this invitation list, Mr. Chapas. You invite her?”

“No. I mean, I asked her to come, to stop by. Not a formal invitation. I was there working.”

“So you said. You spent time with her at the party?”

“Of course. Not much. I had to leave suddenly to go to the office. An emergency.”

“This office?”

“Yes.”

“What time did you leave?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe ten. A little earlier.”

“Was Ms. Flores in good spirits at the party?”

Jenkins’s question caused Chapas to straighten up, sit
back, and consider his answer. “It is interesting you ask that,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I hadn’t thought of it before now. She was—she was sad, I would say. Distracted. No, not happy at all.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t say.”

“But you knew her pretty well. What about before the party? When you were on a date.”

“Nothing. Always happy. But not that night. I—”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t feel well. Are we finished?”

“For the moment.”

Chapas stood. “I want you to know that I liked Laura a lot. I respected her, too.”

“Love her?”

“Please, could I be excused?”

“Sure. We’ll get back to you.”

After Chapas had left the room, Jenkins turned to his partner and said, “He and his boss both say she was sad. His boss says he joked with her. How the hell does he know she was sad? How come they both came to that conclusion, used the same word, ‘sad’?”

“I’d say they got together on it. This kid Chapas can be cracked.”

“I had the same feeling. I think his relationship with the girl was more than he’s admitting to.”

“Definitely worth another visit.”

“Definitely.”

Peterson stood, yawned, and headed for the door. “Let’s get back and fill in LaRocca. Christ, I’m beat.

Cansado
. That’s Spanish for ‘tired,’ I think. I remember it from high school.”

When they reached the lobby, Peterson paused to peruse the building’s directory.

“Joe Aprile’s campaign headquarters is here.”

“Maybe there’ll be another break-in,” Jenkins said, his laugh bordering on a giggle.

“Yeah,” Peterson said. “Wouldn’t that be a hoot?”

Mac Smith was escorted into the West Wing by a young female marine and asked to wait for Chris Hedras, who arrived ten minutes later.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Keeping to a timetable around here isn’t always easy, weekends included.”

“Not a problem,” Smith said. “I hear the president isn’t the most punctual of people.”

Hedras said without smiling, “Drives the veep nuts. He considers himself late if he isn’t early. Come on. He’s waiting for you.”

“I assumed we’d meet in the old Executive Building,” Smith said as they walked. The vice president’s official office was there, not in the White House.

“The vice president has been spending more time these days over here, Mac. Getting the feel for it, maybe, for when he moves in.”

Hedras led them to a cozy pocket dining room on the first floor with windows looking out over a rose garden considerably smaller than the famed one. The table
could accommodate six; three places were set with starched white linen, weighty silverware, and etched glasses.

“We’re eating?” Smith asked.

“Yes. Lunch. The vice president doesn’t get around to lunch until about this time.”

Mac was glad he’d had only fruit a few hours ago.

Joe Aprile came through the door followed by two staffers. “Mac, hello. Thanks for coming.”

“My pleasure.”

Aprile said to the young people with him, “Have the Norwegians in place at three for the photos.”

“They want to meet with you before that,” one said.

“Five minutes, no more.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door closed, leaving Smith, Aprile, and Hedras alone in the room. The vice president sat at the table and gestured for the others to do the same. “I ordered for us,” he said. Then, without any hint of levity, added, “And we’re not having guacamole.”

Smith glanced at Hedras, whose expression said nothing.

Aprile to Hedras: “Call the kitchen. Lunch in twenty minutes.”

As his campaign honcho went to a phone in a corner and placed the call, Aprile said to Mac, “Whatever’s said in this room doesn’t leave it.”

“Understood,” Smith said, aware of the tension in his friend.

Hedras joined them. “Twenty minutes,” he said.

“All right,” Aprile said, sounding as though he was bracing for something unpleasant, “I won’t take more
time than necessary. You’re heading for Mexico in what—nine, ten days?”

Smith nodded.

“I’d like you to go sooner than that.”

“Oh? How much sooner?”

“A day or two earlier.”

“I think I can swing it, although I’m not sure Annabel can.”

It occurred to Smith as he said it that when dealing with such lofty echelons of government, it probably didn’t, or shouldn’t, matter what a spouse’s schedule was. “But she can always join me later,” he added.

Aprile ignored the modification. “I want you to go to Mexico, Mac, as my special envoy.” He narrowed his eyes and looked at Smith, inviting a response.

“As part of my responsibilities as an election observer?” Smith asked.

“In addition to,” Aprile said. “And strictly without credentials.”

Mac’s eyebrows went up. “You’ll have to explain,” he said.

Aprile replied, “I won’t say I don’t mean to be vague because that would be a lie. I
have
to be vague, Mac, for reasons I’ll be able to tell you when your trip is over.”

“Tell me what you can, Mr. Vice President,” Smith said. “The blanks can be filled in later.”

“Okay,” said Aprile. “You’re aware of the two murders at the Watergate.”

“
Two
murders? The gentleman in the garage, yes. The young woman who fell from the east building? I wasn’t aware it was murder.”