Murder at the Kennedy Center (13 page)

“You have your own agency now?”

“Yeah. Natural move to make, huh? What’s an ex-cop know except being a cop? Working private’s good. I can pick and choose the slobs I’ll work with. Lot a’ slobs out there, Mac. This whole country’s la-la land. You find that?”

Smith smiled and sighed. “We do have more than our share of strange ones. Another orange juice?”

“I guess so. Fresh-squeezed. It’s better than canned.”

They filled the next few minutes with small talk. When their breakfasts were served, Smith said, “This case, if it develops, will be a tricky one, Tony. It involves the son of … a prominent politician.”

“Somebody ice him?”

“No.
He’s
suspected of ‘icing’ someone.”

“Yeah? You say
if
the case develops. You’re not … we’re not a sure thing?”

Buffolino tried to hide his disappointment, but Smith picked up on it. “I’m here this morning, Tony, assuming we’re going ahead. Naturally, I have a retainer for you.” He pulled an envelope from his jacket. In it was two hundred dollars. “If we go forward, there’ll be whatever we agree on.”

“The family’s rich?”

“Yes.”

“A big shot. Who they say he kill, somebody in the family?”

“No, it was his lover.”

“Happens,” Buffolino said.

“Too often. Tony, can you start now?”

“Start?”

“Yes. I’ve typed out the details.” Smith pulled papers from his breast pocket and handed them across the table. “My client is Paul Ewald.”

“The senator’s son.”

“He’s a prime suspect in the murder of a young woman with whom he had an affair. Named Andrea Feldman.”

“The broad you found outside the Kennedy Center.”

“Yes.”

Buffolino whistled. “What every candidate for president needs, a son who bumps off a bimbo.”

“Andrea Feldman was no bimbo, Tony. She was an attorney working on Senator Ewald’s staff. Look, I have to move on. You stay here and read what I’ve given you. What I want you to do first is to go out to a motel in Rosslyn called the Buccaneer.”

“I know that joint. They change the sheets every hour.”

“Yes, I’m sure they do. Feldman had a key in her purse to room six at that motel, and my client indicates he’d been there with her, although not on the night she was murdered. I just have a feeling it ought to be checked out. Paul Ewald’s picture’s in the papers. Show it to the owner if you can, see if he remembers ever seeing him there. All the details are on the notes I gave you. Also, Paul Ewald’s wife, Janet, has disappeared. I want you to see what you can do about finding her. And I want you to do some digging into Andrea’s background. I’ve given you what I have, but it’s pretty sketchy.”

Buffolino sat back and quickly scanned what Smith had written out. When he was finished, he looked up and said, “You want me to check out a murder scene, find the missing wife of the accused, and dig into the background of the deceased, all for two hundred bucks?”

“I told you that was a retainer, Tony.”

“And I told you, Mac, that I got some big cases I’m working on back in Baltimore. If I do this for you, I got to drop some of them, and that takes mucho money out of my pocket.”

Smith scrutinized him across the table, and although he knew Buffolino was putting up a front, he also knew that the assignments he’d given him were going to take a lot of his time. He said, “Okay, Tony, I’ll write you a check for a thousand. Get moving on this and we’ll discuss what the real fee will be. Fair enough?”

“Yeah, I trust you, although I don’t know why I should.”

Smith ignored the comment and said, “Some rules, Tony. You discuss this with no one unless I tell you you can. Everything is reported directly back to me. Agreed?”

“Sure. The usual routine.”

“Fine. Enjoy your breakfast,” Smith said. “You have my address there.” He pointed to the papers in Buffolino’s hand. “Meet me at my house tonight at eight.”

“Okay. You’ll have a check for me? My kid needs some more medical help.”

“Yes, I’ll have a check for you. You look good, Tony. It’s good to see you again, and I appreciate your taking time out of a busy schedule to help me with this.”

Buffolino looked into Smith’s eyes and remembered the last time they’d been together. When they’d parted company on that previous occasion, he’d felt betrayed. Would he feel the same way again when this was over? It really didn’t matter at the moment. He needed the money. He
desperately
needed the money.

“See you tonight at eight,” Smith said.

“Yeah, I’ll be there.
Ciao
.”

Buffolino took his time finishing breakfast. When he was through, he went to a pay telephone, consulted a pocket address book, and dialed the number of police headquarters in Rosslyn, Virginia, across the Key Bridge from D.C. “Detective Glass, please,” he said to the desk sergeant.

“Not here. Who’s calling?”

“Buffolino, Tony Buffolino. I’m working private on the Feldman case.” The sergeant hesitated, obviously not sure whether to believe him or not. Then the sergeant said, “Aren’t you the former D.C. cop who …?”

“One and the same, pal. Look, I got information Glass needs on the case. Where is he?”

“Out on an investigation.”

“The Buccaneer Motel?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks.”

He stopped at a newsstand on the way to his car and bought the latest edition of the newspaper. On the front page was a photograph of Paul Ewald that looked as though it might have been taken from his college yearbook. Buffolino retrieved his car and headed for Rosslyn. The radio
in the Caddy was as unreliable as the rest of the vehicle. This morning, however, it was working, and he listened to all-news WRC.

“Here’s an update on the arrest and release of Paul Ewald, son of the Democratic candidate for president, Senator Kenneth Ewald. According to sources who have asked to remain anonymous, Paul Ewald and the deceased, Andrea Feldman, left the party at the Kennedy Center in honor of his father and went to a motel in Rosslyn called the Buccaneer. The same source has told us that a positive identification was made of Paul Ewald from a photograph shown the motel’s owner by police officials. We’ve also learned that Paul Ewald’s wife, Janet, has been missing since the murder, and her whereabouts are still unknown. Finally, Mackensie Smith, formerly one of Washington’s leading criminal attorneys and more recently professor of law at George Washington University, has been retained to represent Paul Ewald in the event he’s charged with the Andrea Feldman murder. Stay tuned for further developments in this and other stories we’re following closely. A Defense Department spokesman said today that …”

Buffolino, who was on M Street, thought, Yeah, and Mac Smith and me are a defense department. He cut a hard right onto Wisconsin Avenue, drove four blocks, pulled into a parking space, and ran into a store whose sign said it sold movie and theatrical memorabilia. He came out ten minutes later, made a U-turn, went right on M again, and crossed the bridge into Rosslyn.

It took him a few wrong turns before he came upon the motel, a one-story cement-block building that was located in an area awaiting gentrification or demolition. Most of its yellow paint was a memory, flaked off years ago. It was flanked by a gas station and a rubble-filled empty lot. A large sign heralded its features—waterbeds, adult movies, and special short-stay rates. The doors had once been red. Red draperies hung precariously over each room’s single window.

Neighborhood residents, mostly black and Hispanic, dawdled in small groups in front of it. There were a couple of news vehicles parked across the street, and a Rosslyn
MPD patrol car blocked the entrance to the parking lot. A uniformed officer leaned against it.

Buffolino went up to the officer. “Hi, Tony Buffolino, working private on the Feldman murder. I’m looking for Detective Glass.”

The officer, whose bored expression testified that he’d been on the force more than six months, nodded toward the only open door in the motel—number 6. “He’s in there.”

Good timing, Buffolino told himself. He said to the officer, “Could you tell him I’m here? He’ll want to see me. Tell him Tony Buffolino is here.”

The officer slowly walked to the open door and poked his head inside. A few minutes later, Detective Robert Glass emerged, and squinted against a hazy sun. “Hello, Tony,” he said, extending his hand.

“Bobby, good to see you. They threw this one at you, huh? What’ve you got, a couple years to the pension?”

Glass, who looked more like a man who belonged in a corporate office than a police precinct, laughed. “Afraid so. What brings you here? He said you were working private on this case.”

Buffolino had rehearsed the answer to that question on his way to Rosslyn. “I’ve been doing a lot of work the past couple a’ years for Mac Smith, the big-shot attorney in D.C. He’s the one who defended me, and he’s wired tight into the Ewald family. In fact, he’s Paul Ewald’s attorney. He asked me to stop down here and see what’s happening.”

“You probably know as much from TV as I do, Tony. Riga from D.C. found a key to this place in her purse, and asked me to check it out.” He looked over his shoulder toward the empty door. “That’s the room they had.”

“You find anything in there?”

Glass shook his head. “We’ve already dusted the place. There were prints, but not good ones. Prints don’t read on sheets.” He laughed.

Buffolino laughed, too. He said, “I heard on the radio that the owner of this dump identified Paul Ewald from a photograph. You show him the photograph?”

“Yes.”

“No question about it with him? He ID’d him right away?”

“Well, he’s an older man, but he didn’t seem to have any doubts.”

“What about the girl? You show him a picture of her?”

“No. You want to see the room?”

“Nah. I think I’ll just hang out a while, maybe talk to the owner.”

“Well, we’re out of here. I’m leaving a uniform until Riga clears the joint. You look good, Tony. Things are good for you?”

“Yeah, great. You?”

“Good. You ought to come over sometime just for fun. My wife asks for you. Come for dinner. Bring somebody. You married again?”

“Nah. Two was enough. Three you’re out. Hey, Bobby, does this thing play for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, it’s just that I have trouble with the idea that Ewald’s son is having a fling with this chick, leaves a big party in honor of his father at the Kennedy Center and brings the broad to this fleatrap, makes it with her, then drives back to D.C., ends up in the bushes across from the Kennedy Center with her, and does her.”

Glass smiled. “People do funny things when they’re in love. Have to go, Tony. Good to see you again.” He shook his hand.

“Who owns this dump?” Buffolino asked. Glass looked toward the motel office where a wizened little old black man stood with a couple of friends. “Him,” Glass said. “Nice old guy. Never have much trouble with him. Runs a decent bang-and-run operation.” He laughed. “Take it easy, Tony, and remember the invitation to come to the house.”

Buffolino got back into the Caddy, found a diner, had coffee and read the newspaper, tearing out the front page and the inside page on which the story about the murder was continued. He shoved them in his pocket and returned to the motel. The red door to number 6 was closed. A uniformed officer sat in front of it.

The motel owner stood outside his office with friends.
“Buffolino, United Press,” Tony told him. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

“You-nited Press?” the owner said.

“That goes all over the world,” one of his friends said, her voice indicating how impressed she was.

The owner, whose name, he said, was Wilton Morse, shook his head. “I’m not talking to nobody. Leave me alone.”

“Hey, man, you already talked to the police. I’m just interested in finding out a little about you and your establishment here, maybe give you some good publicity.”

Morse seemed unsure whether to continue the conversation or to bolt to the safety of his office.

“That’s right, Wilton,” a woman said, laughing. “Might turn this place into some kind of Holiday Inn, maybe even a fancy Hilton Hotel where people stay the night.” Others laughed with her.

Buffolino grinned. “Mr. Morse, what kind of car did they arrive in?”

Morse shook his head.

“No plate number? You didn’t get the plate number when they registered?”

Someone else answered. “People don’t register here. Just cash up front.”

“I done all my talking to the police,” Morse said.

Buffolino knew he was about to lose the motel owner. He said quickly, “You know something, Mr. Morse, you’re quite a hero. I mean, hell, you’re the one who identified the picture.” Before Morse could say anything, Buffolino opened the flap on the envelope he carried and pulled out an 8 × 10 black-and-white glossy print. He shoved it in Morse’s face. “I mean, Mr. Morse, when you looked at this picture and said, ‘Yeah, that’s the man who brought that poor lady here the other night,’ you did everybody one hell of a service.”

Morse squinted at the photograph, and pulled back to focus better. Others moved in and looked, too.

“You’ve got good eyes, Mr. Morse, recognizing him from a picture like this.”

Morse said, “I always remember a face.”

“And a good thing for the citizens of Rosslyn and D.C.,” Buffolino said, replacing the photograph in the envelope. “Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Morse.” He looked past him at the motel. “You got a real nice place here.”

Buffolino didn’t arrive at Mac Smith’s house in Foggy Bottom until almost nine that night. “You’re late,” Smith said.

“I got hung up. You got any coffee?”

“Yes.” Smith poured them each a cup, and they sat at the kitchen table.

“Well?” Smith asked.

“Well, I spent some time at the motel, and then I headed over to where Andrea Feldman lived, near Dupont Circle.”

“Find anything interesting?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Buffolino said. “You heard the owner of the Buccaneer identified Ewald from a photograph, right?”

“Yes, I heard that.”

“I had a few words with the gentleman who owns that dump. Name is Wilton Morse. Nice-enough old guy. I showed him a picture of the man who checked in with Andrea.” Buffolino reached into the envelope, pulled out the photograph he’d shown Morse, and slid it across the table to Smith.