Murder at the Kennedy Center (12 page)

He hung up and stared at the phone, then lifted the receiver and dialed Tony Buffolino’s home number.

“… and so I called his home and got an answering machine. He sounded angry on his message. He said something like, ‘I’m not here, so come on over and rip me off if you want. Otherwise, say what it is you have to say and I’ll get back to you sometime.”

Annabel raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “Lovely dinner you brought in. For you, it’s takeout; for me, bringing in. Are you sure you want to get involved with him again, Mac?”

“Yes, I think I do. He’s exactly the person I need.”

“Why do you need anyone?” she asked. “Paul has been released. Do you think there’s a likelihood he’ll be charged with the murder?”

“I don’t know, but it remains a distinct possibility. Besides, if it isn’t Paul, it could be someone else very close to Ken and Leslie. Paul’s release doesn’t end anything, Annabel. To the contrary, I think it represents the beginning of something long and difficult. Tony was a superb investigator, probably the best MPD had. Yes, I think I could use him … 
if
he calls back, and
if
he’s interested. We didn’t part company on the best of terms.”

“I could never understand that. You saved him from criminal prosecution. He should have been grateful.”

“He didn’t see it that way. He was bounced off the force, which, for him, was the ultimate penalty. He loved being a cop, loved it like no one I’ve ever known. At any rate, I asked him to call me at home. If he does, he’ll get my answering
machine, which, as you know, takes a more civil tone than his.”

Annabel laughed. “Of course I know it. It’s my voice. I even tried to come up with a British accent for you.”

“And you were good. A Brit wouldn’t buy it, but Tony will.” He moved to where she was sitting on her living room couch and put his arm around her. “When do you take possession of the woman hunched over in childbirth?”

“So crude.”

“Just practicing for Tony Buffolino.”

“Two weeks. I pick it up in New York.”

“I’ll go with you, to guard you and the stone brood mare.”

“That would be nice. We can make a weekend of it.”

He pressed his face to her long white neck. “You know I love you, Annabel.”

“Sometimes.” The feel of his hands on the front of her robe was too pleasurable to protest. He continued to stroke her, his fingertips tracing the lines of her body beneath the silk, soon teasing, provoking, causing her to make sounds that to Smith sounded like the “meow” of a contented Siamese. She began to touch him, too, and brushed her lips across his, then stabbed fiercely at his lips, laughing until he parted the sash of her robe and moved his fingers over her skin.

“I am at a large disadvantage …,” she said playfully, her voice trailing off like his fingers. “Get naked, Smith.”

He hated to break the bond between them, but he did. Moments later, they were both nude and heading for the bedroom.

Her housekeeper had changed the linen that morning. Between the clean, smooth sheets, they easily slid into first a gentle, then a more aggressive, display of their hunger for each other.

After they were spent, she whispered only, “Whew!”

“I hate to bring up a rival,” Smith said, getting up from the bed, “but I want to call my machine.” He picked up the phone, punched in his code, and listened to messages.

“Did Buffolino call?” she asked when he was finished.

“Yes. He said, ‘A blast from the past.’ Then he added,
‘Smith, I want to tell you to drop dead. But I learned a couple of lives ago never to shut the door to anything. Call me. Any hour. I’m up late. I got this thing for old movies.’ ”

“A character.”

“That and other things. Do you mind if I call him now?”

“Why should I mind? You’ve already seen to it that I’ve suffered my delightful ‘little death.’…” She smiled. “ ‘Deaths’ is more accurate.”

“I’ll use the phone in the living room.”

“No, stay here. I can touch you while you talk.”

He dialed. “Tony?”

“Yeah. Smith?”

“Yes. I got your message.”

“I got yours, too. Hey, I heard about you finding the body of that chick who got it.”

“Yes, I was walking my dog, and …” Nobody cared that he was walking his dog. “Tony, I have a case that I thought you might be interested in working on.”

“A case?” He snickered. “What’d they do, fire you at the U? What’d you do, put the make on a Betty Co-ed?” A louder laugh this time. “Nice young stuff at the U, huh?”

“Nothing like that, Tony. I’d like to talk to you tomorrow.”

“That’ll be tough. I’m in the middle of … renovations … on my office … suite. I got a big case going. I may win it. It’s called prosperity. You want breakfast? You want to
buy
breakfast? I’ll come to D.C., any place you say as long as it’s good. No greasy spoons, okay?”

Smith couldn’t help but smile as he listened to that voice he’d heard so often when he was defending Buffolino. “Sure,” he said, “breakfast, my treat, my pleasure. Seven o’clock at the …?”

“Seven o’clock? What, are you crazy? I work nights, man. Make it nine.”

Smith sighed. “All right, nine, Tony. Be on time.”

“I’m always on time. You know that. I just like to be realistic. You know the airlines build in their schedules all kinds of time so that they look like they arrive on time? All a fraud. All a fraud. I pick a realistic ETA and I make it. I’ll see you at nine.”

“One question, Tony.”

“What?”

“Are you available to take on a case that could run a while?”

“I’m up to my duff in cases, Mac, but I’ll check my calendar. Maybe I can juggle things,
if
I decide to work for you. Know what?”

“What, Tony?”

“It’ll be good to see you again.”

“I’ll enjoy it, too. Nine o’clock at … where are we meeting?”

Buffolino said, “The Jockey Club in the Ritz-Carlton. We’ll have a … whatta they call it … a power breakfast.”

“Fine. Nine at the Jockey Club.”

“You got it, Mac Smith.” He paused. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yes.”

“You sound different.”

“You don’t. Good night, Tony.”

Smith hung up, and was at once amused and annoyed. Buffolino’s bravado and bluff was the stuff of all losers. On the other hand, Tony had attributes, strengths that Smith needed, including candor, know-how, street smarts. Smith had once had a good staff, good people, who’d drifted away into other lives when he closed his practice. The little speech he’d made that day informing them of his decision had been difficult. A few cried, a few swore, one or two shrugged it off and promised to go on to bigger and better things. Each handled it in his or her own way. Of course. Just another instance of life happening while other plans are being made.

“Mac,” Annabel said, touching him.

“What?” He drew a sharp breath.

“Spend the night.”

Even though he was an experienced lawyer, there was no argument from him.

Tony Buffolino sat at a folding metal kitchen table and applied polish to black wing-tip shoes. He seldom wore them. They were tight and pinched his toes, but they went with the blue suit he intended to wear to his breakfast meeting that morning with Smith.

Abercrombie, the smaller and younger of two black-and-white cats (the other was Fitch, of course), walked across the table and pushed his head against Buffolino’s hand. “Not now, baby, Daddy’s got to get out a’ here and earn some cat food.” Abercrombie looked at him as though understanding and approving, arched his back, and sashayed away.

A squeal of brakes caused Buffolino to turn and look out through a dirt-crusted, smeared window at the street one flight below. It was an industrial area of Baltimore. A ready-mix cement company was across the street, flanked by two automobile body shops, both of which, Buffolino knew, were part straight, part chop shops. The car with the loud brakes had almost hit a homeless drunk named John who slept in wrecks behind the shops. The driver leaned out his
window and cursed at John, who answered with a series of jerky arm and finger gestures.

Buffolino shook his head as he stood and stretched, causing his sleeveless undershirt to pull out of his striped boxer shorts. He pushed dirty dishes aside in the kitchen sink and used a Brillo pad to scrub the black polish from his fingers. Taking a bowl from the pile, he filled it with milk and placed it on the floor next to three other bowls that had been licked clean.

The bedroom was in the rear of the railroad flat he’d called home for the past two years. It was large enough for an earthquake of a double bed, a dresser rejected by the Salvation Army, and a yellow plastic table that served as a nightstand. A telephone, answering machine, windup alarm clock, and dog-eared copies of
Penthouse
and
Playboy
covered the surface. Because there was no closet in the room, he’d suspended a piece of iron pipe with wire attached to hooks screwed into the ceiling. His blue suit was covered with a dry cleaner’s plastic. He slipped on the trousers, which were tight around his waist, and swore softly as he sucked in his stomach and hooked them closed. He rummaged through dresser drawers for the blue silk shirt, unhooked his pants, breathed deeply, tucked in the shirt, and tied a white tie around his neck, the skinny end dangling below the fat end.

In the tiny bathroom, he carefully peeled away a piece of toilet tissue he’d used to stem the flow of blood from a shaving cut, ran a comb through thick, wavy black hair with gray at the temples, and turned his head back and forth as he scrutinized his mirror image. Some people said he looked like Dave Toma, the former cop turned actor and antidrug crusader, although Buffolino thought there was more Paul Newman in his face than that. Victor Mature, his first wife had decided. Peter Falk, said wife number two. But neither of them spoke that way after the first few years. Mussolini, said one; baboon said the other.

He strapped on a shoulder holster, poured himself a cup of coffee, and turned on the radio. The weather would be sunny and warm. Yeah, and maybe Buffolino would earn a few dimes to buy his Billy a thing or two.

He let the phone in the bedroom ring until the machine picked up, and he heard the voice of his second wife, Barbara, through the speaker. He picked up. “Hello, Babs. I was on my way out. I got an important meeting in D.C. at the Jockey Club. That’s at the Ritz. I got to step on it.”

“Tony, is there any chance of getting some extra money this month? The doctor wants Billy to see a bone specialist, and I don’t have it.”

“Bone specialist? What for? It’s in his bones now?”

“No, Tony, no, but the radiation does things, I guess. I’m not sure, but the doctor says I should take him.”

“Goddamn doctors. Bloodsuckers. What do they think, we live in Bethesda? Jesus. How much?”

“I don’t know. I just need to know you can help out if it’s a big bill.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll help out. I got this meeting this morning about a case. You remember Mac Smith? Yeah, he called me and needs me. How’s that, huh? It’s a big one. Yeah, sure, you got it, Babs. Is he there?”

“No. My mother has him for a few days.”

“How’s your mother?”

“Fine. She’s a big help.”

“Yeah, I know. Well, Babs, I got to go. I don’t want to be late, huh? Let me know.”

“I will. Thanks, Tony.”

“Yeah. Say hello to Billy. Maybe I can get out to see him this weekend.”

“Try. He asks about you all the time.”

“Yeah. This weekend. I’ll be there unless this case sends me out a’ town. I’ll call ahead. So long.”

His car, a faded red 1978 Cadillac with a cracked white landau roof and white leather interior gone grimy with age, was parked in front of a body shop. It wouldn’t start. “You should junk this, Tony,” the body-shop owner grumbled as he always did when Buffolino persuaded him to give him a jump-start. “I can get you a nice ’85, ’86 cheap. Maybe even the color you want.”

“Yeah, that’d be nice,” Buffolino said, looking at his watch.

“You tell me what you want, Tony—year, color, accessories, and I get it for you, a couple days.” The car started.

“Thanks, man,” Buffolino said. “We’ll talk about it.”

“Foreign, too—BMW, Mercedes, Jag. Whatever.”

“Good, great, thanks, Mickey. I owe you.” No thanks, he thought. As much as I need new wheels, no custom-stealing for me.

It was stop-and-go traffic once he reached the D.C. city limits. His engine stopped and went, too, dying multiple deaths but recovering each time with distinct moans of protest. Shame innocent murder victims can’t do the same, he thought.

By the time he parked around the corner from the Ritz-Carlton, he was fifteen minutes late. “Damn, man,” he muttered as he ran around the corner and sped past the doorman.

Smith was waiting at a table. Buffolino paused in the doorway, drew a deep breath, ran his hand over his hair, and sauntered up to the table. Smith stood, extended his hand. “Hello, Tony, good to see you again.”

“Yeah.” He sat and looked around. “Nice place.”

“I assumed you’d been here before.”

“Nah. Always wanted to. My girlfriend comes here.”

“Girlfriend? Getting married again?”

“Nah. Three times you’re out, huh?” He smiled. “You look good, Mr. Smith. A couple a’ pounds more maybe, but good. The U treats you good?”

“Yes.” Smith motioned to a waiter for menus. “I suggest we order,” he said. “I’m sure we both have commitments to get to.”

“Yeah. Up to my neck.” Tony’s schedule called for him to sit in a small spare office he rented from a real estate broker and wait for the phone to ring, hoping it was not someone selling subscriptions or a recorded voice offering choice bargains in travel, real estate, or jewelry.

After they’d ordered, Buffolino asked, “What’s this case you called me about?”

What Smith wanted to accomplish from this initial meeting was a sense that Buffolino was still the person he needed, to become reacquainted with the man he’d defended years
ago. He answered the question with, “Tell me about yourself these days, Tony. Fill me in on your business. How are your children?”

“They’re good. One’s got a medical problem … Billy … I guess you remember.… Yeah, well, sure you do.… anyhow, nothing I can’t handle.” He almost asked about Smith’s son, but caught himself.