Murder at the Watergate (32 page)

“I can help with that,” Aprile said.

He had their full attention.

“I received a call from Chris just a few minutes before you arrived.”

“What did he say?” Mac asked.

“He said he was back from Mexico and that there had been a tragedy there involving this Unzaga. He said he needed some time off.”

“Did he say why?” one of the CIA men asked.

“He said what happened in Mexico had taken a lot out of him, and that he had some personal things to attend to.”

“Did he mention the evidence he took?” Mac asked.

“No, and I didn’t say anything about the conversation you and I had last night, at your suggestion.”

“Where was he calling from?” Detective LaRocca asked.

“He didn’t say. I asked. He didn’t answer.”

Commissioner Mayles, a jowly man with a heavy beard line who’d risen through the ranks and was respected by the city’s law enforcement professionals, said, “Mr. Vice President, it might be helpful if Chief LaRocca filled you in on MPD’s investigation of the recent murders. Pete?”

LaRocca’s unease at addressing the vice president was evident in his voice. After a false start and a clearing of his throat, he said, “Sir, two of our homicide detectives,
Peterson and Jenkins, have been working the deaths of Morin Garza, Laura Flores, and the most recent, Ramon Kelly.”

“And those deaths involve Chris Hedras?” Aprile asked, hoping it wasn’t true.

“I’m afraid so, sir. What we’ve come up with … Let me backtrack. There’s an organization in town called the Mexican-American Trade Alliance. They hosted the party that Ms. Flores attended the night she died. There’s a young guy there named Jose Chapas who dated her. He was at the party but left early.”

“And?” Aprile asked.

“Chapas spouted the party line when he was first questioned, but Peterson and Jenkins put on the pressure. According to Chapas, his employer does a lot more than lobby for Mexico. A unit of theirs functions as sort of a murder-for-hire team here in DC for somebody back in Mexico. Hedras, according to Chapas, funneled information to the group about people like Garza and Kelly. Ms. Flores, too. What they knew, where they’d be, what they intended to do. He knew all this stuff because he was so close with another group, The Mexico Initiative.”

Aprile looked at Mac, then closed his eyes. His pain filled the room. When he opened them, he said, “Then this Chapas is a killer, a paid assassin.”

“No, sir,” LaRocca said. “We believe him when he says all he did was operate the communications center for the trade alliance. But he knew what was going on.”

Mac Smith spoke: “Knowing now what Hedras’s role was, Mr. Vice President, I’m certain he passed along details of my meeting with Carlos Unzaga. He was in a position
to know everything. That act cost Unzaga his life, along with some of his followers’.”

Aprile directed his next question to the commissioner. “Have you made an arrest in the murders?”

“No, sir, but we’re close,” Mayles replied. “This Mexican Trade Alliance was pretty good at establishing layers of detachment from the actual killers. Actually, there’s one killer we’ve definitely identified, an American named Harry Tankowski. He worked under a contract with the Alliance. Chapas says he didn’t know that Tankowski was a hired killer when Ms. Flores was thrown off the roof. He’d been told he was a consultant. But Chapas is willing to testify against Tankowski, against everyone in his organization.”

“Where is Chapas?” Mac asked.

“We left him in place,” LaRocca said. “Didn’t want to scare anyone off until we were ready to move.”

“Then he could be in danger,” Annabel said.

“We intend to pull him out today, if that fits in with what everybody else is doing.”

“And what about this Tankowski?” Mac asked. “Where is he?”

“In his apartment,” LaRocca said. “We’ve had him and the south building under surveillance since Chapas told us about him.”

“The south building in the Watergate?” Annabel said.

“Yes, ma’am. We’re ready to go in and take him as soon as we get the word. If you say go, Mr. Vice President, we go.”

Aprile said, “Mac, you look as though you have more to offer.”

“I want to go back to the question asked earlier, Mr.
Vice President, about where Chris Hedras might be. He said he was in Washington?”

“Right.”

Smith stood. “The sooner we find Chris,” he said, “the sooner we get that envelope back.”

“We can put out an all-points on him,” LaRocca said.

Joe Aprile said, “I had the impression from Chris that he intended to simply go on as usual, aside from wanting a few days off. He didn’t sound as though he was particularly upset or concerned. In fact, he said he’d drop by campaign headquarters either later today or tomorrow.”

“A cool customer,” Mayles said.

There were other descriptions of Hedras Mac was tempted to use, but he held his tongue.

It was agreed that the MPD would arrest Harry Tankowski, and pull Jose Chapas from the Mexican-American Trade Alliance and place him under protection.

“What about the others there?” a CIA agent asked.

“We’ll need clarification on their legal status,” LaHoya said.

“They’re not diplomats,” Aprile said. “There’s no immunity.”

“We’ll have a legal ruling by morning,” Commissioner Mayles said.

“And what about Hedras?” Mac asked.

“Let’s not scare him off,” Aprile said. “He didn’t seem to be fully aware of what’s going on.”

“Can we secure the airports?” Mac asked. “He’s liable to bolt.”

“We’ll take care of it,” LaRocca said. “Buses and trains, too. And I suggest we station plainclothes officers
at your campaign headquarters, Mr. Vice President, in case he does stop by.”

“And his apartment,” Mayles added. “Round-the-clock.”

On the way out, Mac asked Commissioner Mayles what Hedras could be charged with.

“Conspiracy. Accomplice to murder.”

“
If
he knew what his information was being used for,” Smith said. He had his doubts.

“There’s got to be money,” LaRocca said, “unless he was doing it for love. Hell, there must be some federal statute against accepting payoffs from foreign governments.”

“Where can we drop you?” LaHoya asked Mac and Annabel.

“Home,” Annabel said. “This has been exhausting.”

They pulled up in front of the south building, thanked LaHoya and their driver, got out, and were about to enter when a commotion in the lobby stopped them.

“What’s going on?” Annabel asked.

“I’ll be damned,” Mac muttered.

Harry Tankowski was led through the main entrance by four uniformed police, his hands secured behind him. He’d obviously been sleeping when the arrest was made. He wore a robe over pajamas; his yellow silken hair was a mess.

“That’s the man who—”

Mac gripped Annabel’s hand. “Yeah, that’s the guy you shared your table with.”

Tankowski and his police escort passed within a few feet. As they did, Tankowski smiled at them.

“When I think of how close to him we’ve been,” Annabel said. “He’s a—he was a neighbor.”

“A killer, and with bad manners at that. He’ll learn some manners in prison. Come on, let’s get upstairs.”

“I miss Rufus,” Annabel said once they were back in the apartment.

“We’ll pick him up in the morning. Drink?”

“Oh, yes. One of your perfect Perfect Manhattans would be, well, perfect.”

“Coming up.”

“I’ll be on the terrace.”

Mac had just put the ingredients into the glass half of the cocktail shaker and had begun to stir when the phone rang. He continued with one hand while answering with the other.

“Mac, it’s Bernie Kirshbaum.”

“How’s my favorite dentist?”

“Good.”

“I know, I’m due for a cleaning. I’ll—”

“I wasn’t calling about that. I thought you might know what’s going on. Don says they arrested a serial killer in your building.” The dental offices of Bernie Kirshbaum and Don Kruezer were in the Watergate complex.

“It’s a long story, Bernie. I’ll fill you in when I’m in your professional clutches. How’s Mary?”

“Okay. You’ve been away. Vacation? Get some sun?”

Mac laughed. “There was heat. Save me a chair.”

“It has your name on it. Make an appointment soon. They raised our rent again.”

Mac carried the drinks to the terrace, where Annabel sat, feet propped on the railing, eyes closed.

“Your drink, madam.”

She looked up, smiled, accepted the glass, and asked, “Who called?”

“Bernie Kirshbaum. He heard a rumor some serial killer had been arrested in the building. I told him he should stop using his own laughing gas.”

“You didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.” He offered the rim of his glass to hers.

“I am positively drained, Mac.”

He sat next to her. “No surprise. But we’re home now. Tomorrow we’ll get the beast from the kennel, you’ll go to the gallery, I’ll don my academic robes, and everything will be back to normal. Mexico will be just a bad dream.”

“Which makes me sad. I so wanted us to enjoy our few days in San Miguel. I had it all planned. It’s such a shame that—”

“Is that the doorbell?”

“I didn’t hear it.”

“It is.”

He started to get up, but she placed her hand on his arm. “I’ll get rid of whoever it is.”

A moment later, Annabel said, “Mac!” He immediately recognized strain in her voice, got up, and went to the foyer. Standing in the doorway was Chris Hedras.

“Hello, Mac,” Hedras said, a self-conscious smirk on his lips. He was not the same self-confident, smug young achiever they were accustomed to seeing. There was bravado in his posture, but his eyes said something else. They were frightened eyes, in constant motion. A film of perspiration covered his forehead and upper lip. Although his suit, shirt, and tie were characteristically stylish, there
was a wrinkled look to them; they were as wilted as the person wearing them.

“Hello, Chris,” Mac said. “This is a surprise.”

“Yeah, I should have called first, I suppose, but I was in the building, thought I’d take a chance. Invite me in?”

“Of course.”

Mac and Annabel stepped back to allow him to enter.

Hedras laughed forcefully: “Is that humongous dog home?”

“No.”

“Good. Hate to end up a meal.”

He stepped inside and closed the door, looked around nervously.

“Well,” Mac said, “how are you?”

“Okay. I, uh—”

“Come, sit down.” They went to the living room. “A beer?”

“Sure. That’d be nice. Thanks. I could use something.”

“Only be a minute.”

Hedras sat on the couch. Annabel followed her husband into the kitchen.

“Domestic, if you have it,” Hedras called after them. “I’ve had enough Mexican beer to last me for a while.”

“Sure.”

“What are we going to do?” Annabel whispered to Mac.

“Hear what he has to say.”

“I’ll go to another room. Call the—”

“You brewing it yourselves?” Hedras asked, appearing in the doorway.

Mac forced a laugh. “You took us by surprise, Chris. Annabel was just leaving.”

“Oh? Why don’t you stay awhile? I won’t be long.”

As Mac popped open a bottle of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, he glanced at Hedras, who stood leaning against the doorjamb, one hand in his suit jacket pocket. Did he have a gun?

“I don’t have to leave right away,” Annabel said. Mac knew she was as apprehensive as he was but didn’t want to leave him alone. He wished she felt otherwise. He reached in the fridge again and opened a second bottle, handed it to Hedras.

“Muchas gracias,”
Hedras said, taking a desperate swallow from the bottle. He followed Mac and Annabel back to the living room, where, once seated again, they observed him. Their unstated consensus was that he was on some drug. Mac raised his beer:
“Salud!”

“Yeah.
Salud
.” He finished the bottle.

“So, what brings you here, Chris?” Annabel asked.

“I just wanted to apologize for the mix-up in Mexico. I had to leave on the spur of the moment—problems back here—and didn’t have a chance to say good-bye to the two of you.”

“No apologies needed,” Mac said.

“When did you get back?” Annabel asked.

“Today. I just heard about what happened to Unzaga—and you, of course. God, that must have been frightening.”

“Yes, it was.”

“You know, Mac, there’s bound to be some confusion about what happened in San Miguel. I thought you and I might go over it before I give my report to Straight Arrow.” He laughed. “I love that nickname. Sure fits him.”

“Another beer?”

“Okay.”

With Mac in the kitchen, Hedras said to Annabel, “I sure was relieved to see Mac in one piece. That was nothing short of a massacre in San Miguel, an absolute massacre. I talked to Elfie. She’s in shock. The whole town’s in shock.”

“I imagine it would be.”

Mac returned, handed Hedras the fresh bottle.

“I’m anxious to hear what happened after the shootout,” Hedras said. “I’ve just gotten it in dribs and drabs.”

“It was chaotic,” Mac said. “Unzaga had said he was having an envelope of evidence delivered to me at the hotel. I never got it.”

“Really? What a shame. Any idea what happened?”

“Someone else picked it up before we got there.”

Hedras drank. “Who?” he asked.

“It might have been you, Chris.”

“Me?” He shook his head and laughed. “I don’t know about any envelope. Evidence? Of what?”

“Some of the things Unzaga told me before he died. Actually, the envelope probably isn’t that important. With what Unzaga said, coupled with independent corroboration here in Washington, the case can still be made against factions within the PRI.”

“That’s good to hear. An envelope? Why would you think I took it?”

“Based on the description provided by the night manager.”

“He must have had too much tequila. I was so relieved to hear you escaped the assassination. I love Mexico, Mac, but it’s such a violent country.”

“Especially when people know where certain individuals will be.”

“Sure.” He paused. “What people?”

“Unzaga, for one. Those troops knew precisely where he would be, and when.”