Murder at the Kennedy Center (14 page)

Smith stared at it. “That’s Van Johnson.”

“It sure is,” Tony said after his second cup of coffee and third doughnut. “And it cost me ten bucks. I’m keeping track of expenses.”

“Of course.”

“I showed this to Morse, the owner, like it was the picture the cops showed him, and he didn’t tell me it wasn’t Paul Ewald.”

“Did he confirm that this was the person he saw come into the motel with Andrea Feldman?”

“Nope. But he didn’t deny it either.”

Smith sat back and shook his head. “What made you take this photograph there, Tony?”

“I done it before. I saw Ewald’s picture in the paper and he looked a little like Van Johnson to me, so I figured I’d try it. Sometimes it works, sometimes it don’t.”

“Anything else at the motel?” Smith asked.

“No, except Morse, the owner, needs glasses but don’t wear them. I could tell the way he was squinting at the picture.”

“Very observant. What about Andrea Feldman’s apartment. You got into it?”

“No, but I knew the cop guarding the scene. I asked him about where she lived, and he told me it was kind of strange.”

“In what way?”

“Well, he said it looked like nobody lived there, real sparse, no pictures, just a couple a’ books, clothes in the closet. You know, you figure a career dame like this wants to live good, have comfortable surroundings, but my friend told me that ain’t the way it was.”

“You’ve had a busy day, Tony.”

“Yeah, and I’m beat. You got anything to lace this coffee with?”

“Sure.” Smith placed a bottle of Nocello on the kitchen table and refilled their cups. “Tony, I’m going to need you for a while. Can you shake your other commitments and work with me?”

“I been thinking about that. You know something, Mac, it’s good to be back with you. I know we parted on lousy terms the last time, but you can understand that. Hell, it was my career that went up in smoke.” Smith started to say something, but Buffolino continued. “Besides, this Ewald thing fascinates me. Yeah, count me in, but it’s going to cost you.”

“Meaning?”

“A grand a week, plus a place to stay in D.C. I can’t be drivin’ back and forth to Baltimore.”

“Lots of people do.”

“Yeah, nine-to-fivers. I’m on a case twenty-four hours.”

Smith frowned. “All right,” he said, “that can be arranged. A thousand dollars a week and a place to stay.”

“I figure I ought to be close to you here, and close to the Kennedy Center.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to be close to the Kennedy Center?”

“I don’t know, Mac, just a hunch. I mean, that’s where she bought it, and our client was at that party there. How about springing for a suite at the Watergate?”

Smith sat up straight. “At the Watergate? A suite? I wouldn’t have supposed you’d want that after what happened.”

“Well, time goes by, huh?” Buffolino grinned. “Whattaya say? Think of it this way, Mac. We’re going to need someplace to work out of, right?”

Smith nodded. He’d been thinking the same thing.

“So, we get a suite at the Watergate, you get an office, I got a place to live that’s decent and close to everything, and we all get somethin’ out of it.”

Smith couldn’t help but smile. “Okay, Tony, a suite at the Watergate it is.”

“Great. Call ’em in the morning, and I’ll get over and pick the room. I got to go back to Baltimore and pack some things, get somebody to take care of my cats.”

“Pick the room?”

“Yeah. Anything wrong with that?”

“I suppose not. I’ll call and tell them you’re coming.”

“Good enough, Mac.” Buffolino stood and slapped Smith on the arm. “Hey, I think we’re gonna make a hell of a team.”

Long after Buffolino had left, Smith sat in his study, Rufus at his side. He didn’t read, didn’t make notes, just sat and thought. He realized his head was beginning to droop, looked at his dog, and said, “There is something very strange going on here, Rufus, very strange indeed.”

Rufus raised his head from the floor and looked at Smith as though he understood every word. Smith got up. “Come on,” he said. “Time for you to go into the great outer world—or outer john. We’ll discuss this further in the morning.”

“May I help you, sir?” a pretty desk clerk at the Watergate Hotel asked Buffolino.

“Yeah, probably. Mr. Mackensie Smith made arrangements for me to choose a suite, and to stay in it for a while. The name’s Buffolino, Anthony Buffolino.”

The clerk smiled at him and pulled a computer printout from a file folder. “Yes, sir, I have the reservation here. You’ll have suite—”

“As a matter of fact, I have a preference. I’d like suite 1117.”

“Suite 1117? Let me see. Yes, it’s available for the next four days. We have someone coming in after that.”

“You can give them another room.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Buffolino.”

“Let’s not worry about it now, I’m sure Mr. Smith can work it out. In the meantime, I’ll just go up.”

“Of course.” He filled out the registration card. “Luggage?” she asked.

He pointed to a battered steamer trunk and two canvas duffel bags.

“I’ll have … them … sent up right away,” she said. An incinerator would be more appropriate, she thought.

He was handed the key and rode the elevator to the eleventh floor, opened the door to suite 1117, and stood in the archway, his eyes embracing the suite, his tongue almost tasting it—every wall, corner, every brass-framed picture, lush and large plant, piece of furniture.

He stepped inside and rocked back and forth, his toes and heels sinking into the foyer’s thick gold carpeting. Closets were to his right. He looked at himself in a mirror that hung over a marble table. A few steps and he was on the fringe of a huge living room. A seven-foot leather couch, three leather chairs, and a large black lacquered coffee table occupied the right side of the room. In front of him, twenty feet away, was a twenty-five-inch color TV. He took a few more steps and turned left. A heavy white table surrounded by four chairs with cane backs and floral print fabric provided a dining area for a full kitchen hidden behind fanfold doors.

He passed the smaller of two baths as he went to the bedroom, a large and airy space with two queen-sized beds, a TV, desk, and a sitting area formed by white leather chairs and a brass table. A brisk breeze through slightly opened sliding glass doors sent gossamer white curtains fluttering into the room.

Outside, on the Astroturf-carpeted balcony, he looked down over the sprawling Watergate complex, then slowly walked the length of the balcony on the bedroom side until reaching the point where it wrapped to the left, around the corner of the suite. From there, he looked down onto the Potomac. Small boats of all descriptions, including an eight-man racing scull, moved with varying speeds through the brown water. Across the river, spires on old Georgetown University buildings spiked up into heavy gray air that had descended on the city.

For a moment, there had been a small satisfied grin on Buffolino’s face during his tour of the suite. Now—and suddenly—he closed his eyes and grimaced against an unseen invasion of sound and image. Day turned to night, and time fell away, taking him with it to a night six years ago outside suite 1117.…

He was in the hallway, looking right and left. He knocked. The security chain was slipped from its notch, and the door opened. The man was young, black, and dressed nicely. He scrutinized Tony before allowing him to step into the foyer. The door closed. Tony looked in the direction of the bedroom. A tall roses-and-cream blonde wearing a silk robe loosely secured at the waist smiled at him.

“My man,” a male voice said from the living room.

He was on the leather couch, his feet up on the black lacquered coffee table. “Tony, right on time. Come in and sit down.” Another woman, brunette and still more luxurious than the blonde, sat in one of the leather chairs. She, too, wore a revealing robe. “This is Joanna, Tony, a friend of mine.” He laughed and patted her bare knee.

Buffolino sat in a chair facing her. The man on the couch, who was in his early thirties, was Panamanian, although there was little trace of it in his speech. He wore a red silk shirt open to his stomach. Three thin gold chains nestled in a heavy mat of black chest hair. Thick fingers supported multiple rings. Light from a table lamp revealed skin that was pockmarked and sebaceous. “Why don’t you and your friend spend a little time together in the bedroom,” he said to Joanna. “Freshen up, get pretty for us. We’ll see you later.” She touched Buffolino’s neck as she passed him. Moments later, he heard the bedroom door close.

“So, Tony, my man, we finally get together. That’s nice. That’s the way it should be, doing business together instead of being competitors. It’s like a merger.”

Buffolino didn’t respond.

“Hungry, Tony? Help yourself.” He nodded at the white table near the kitchen. On it was a cut-glass bowl of caviar, surrounded by thinly sliced and crustless toast, lemon wedges, chopped onions, and cooked egg yolks. “The best, man. I ordered up the best for my new partner. What do you drink?”

“Ah, anything. Scotch, vodka, a beer.”

“Take whatever you want, baby. It’s all there.”

Tony poured himself half a glass of Absolut over ice and returned to the chair. The man on the couch raised a partly consumed glass of orange juice in a toast. “To our merger,
Tony. To good times for everybody.” Buffolino lifted his glass, but only to his mouth.

“Like this suite, Tony? I do. Somebody said once that living well is the best revenge. I like that. It’s true. People like you and me should always live well, high style like. Now that we’re partners, you’ll be living like this, too, as long as you keep doing what I’m paying you to do.”

Buffolino stared at him over his glass.

“You’re not a big talker, are you, Tony? That’s good. Talkers get in trouble. You’re a
silent
partner. I like that.”

“I got one question for you, Garcia.”

“Hey, you got a right to ask questions.”

“What happens if this thing goes sour? I mean, you realize my neck is way out, huh?”

Garcia opened his eyes wide and smiled. “And, Tony, my man, you are being paid plenty of green for stretching your neck a little. Besides, anything goes bad on the deal, you come visit me in Panama. I got plenty of room, and plenty of friends who’ll take real good care of you.”

Buffolino knew Garcia was referring to the strongman Colonel Morales, who not only ran Panama with an iron fist, but who was alleged to run that country’s multibillion-dollar drug industry, too.

“Look, I got to go, Garcia. Just give me the money and let me get out of here.”

“Sure, sure, only I thought we could celebrate a little. You order up anything you want, drink, eat, spend a little time with my friends in there.”

“Nah, I got other things to do.”

“As you wish. You like to keep things all business, that’s fine with me. I like that. All business. So, you do understand what our deal is?”

“Yeah.”

“Instead of busting my chops like you’ve been doing, you leave me alone here in D.C., like happens in other cities where I have partners. You keep me out of trouble, let me know when trouble’s brewing, make sure your cop buddies don’t bust my chops. Right?”

“Right. I don’t need a lesson in how this goes down.
Come on, Garcia, give me the money before I change my mind.”

Garcia crossed the expansive room and returned with a black leather Gucci briefcase, placing it on the table in front of Buffolino. “There it is, Tony. You even get the briefcase as a bonus.” He laughed. “I don’t mess around. I go first class all the way, like you’ll be doing from now on. Every month, you get the same. Oh, but not a new briefcase.” Another laugh. “The same bread, twenty-five grand, and all you have to do to earn it is do n-o-o-o-th-i-i-i-n-g.” He dragged out the word.

Buffolino took the briefcase and started to get up.

“Come on,” Garcia said, “relax. You got the money, right? One more drink between partners.” He didn’t allow Tony to respond, simply went to the table near the kitchen and refilled his glass. “How’s it feel to have twenty-five grand in your hands?”

Buffolino looked at the briefcase, and a wave of disgust came over him, so strong that he wondered if he might become ill. “Listen, I …” Garcia rejoined him. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Feel like dirty money because it’s drug money? You’ll forget about that once you start spending it. It spends the same as clean money, only it’s easier to come by. You see that. All you have to do is leave my operation alone, give me a word or two now and then, and get rich, with nobody knowing the difference.”

Buffolino took a long swig of his drink. As he was placing it on the table to leave, the first sounds and sights erupted. The whirling blades of a helicopter suddenly loomed up outside, a brilliant light from it pouring through the glass doors and painting everything in the room in harsh whiteness.

“What the …?” Buffolino bolted from the chair and headed for the door. It opened before his hand could reach the knob. Standing in the hall were four men, their guns drawn.

“Cool out, Tony,” one of them said. Officers from Internal Affairs. “Nothing stupid.”

Buffolino turned and looked at Garcia, who was leaning casually on the television, a smug grin on his face.

“Cuff him,” a cop said as another removed Tony’s service revolver from where it sat beneath his jacket.

There were so many things Buffolino wanted to tell them instantly, how he never took from anybody before, how his youngest child was sick with cancer and needed expensive medical treatment beyond what his benefits as a cop would cover, how backwards it was to use a notorious drug kingpin like Garcia to trap a cop who’d always been honest, to make a deal with that scum. He said nothing, and was led to a waiting car downstairs.

Tony Buffolino opened his eyes and blinked. That scene had played in his mind thousands of times since it happened. Early—during the hearings, and shortly after his dismissal from the force—he wished he’d run from the suite to the balcony and gone over. Then, as the banal realities of every day prevailed, that thought dimmed. Not the scene itself, not the disgrace, the second divorce, being shunned by friends in MPD, the hatred he felt for those who’d set him up, wired Garcia, caused him to lose what had always meant most to him. That Mackensie Smith had successfully prevented a criminal action being brought against him meant nothing. Anthony Buffolino died that night in suite 1117.