Murder at the Kennedy Center (17 page)

“Happy to, Mac. What’s his connection with Ewald?”

“No connection.”

“I was really shocked, I have to tell you, when I heard you had agreed to represent the Ewald son. I thought you were out of litigation for good.”

“Nothing is forever, as they say.”

Tubbs laughed. “I heard a rumor that you were doing
this for Senator Ewald to try and keep his campaign on track. I’d like to think that was an altruistic act on your part, but rumor also goes on to say that if Ewald becomes president, I’m talking to our next attorney general.”

“No, you’re speaking with an old friend who’s taken some time off to help another friend, and who will be scurrying back to academia as soon as possible.”

“As you wish, Mac. I’ll be happy to see what I can come up with on Greist. Where can I reach you tomorrow morning, at home?”

Smith started to affirm that, then said, “No, Morgan, I’ve established an office in the Watergate Hotel. It’s suite 1117. I should be there by late morning.”

“Talk to you then.”

Smith told Annabel that he would call her in New York before her meeting and fill her in on what he’d learned about Greist from Tubbs. Then he called Tony Buffolino at the Watergate, but there was no answer.

That afternoon, they went to Smith’s Foggy Bottom house, where he prepared a list of things he wanted to accomplish the next day and fed Rufus. Later he suggested, “Let’s take a nice, long, leisurely walk. It might be the last time for a while we can just do nothing together.”

“Were we doing nothing together this morning?”

“No,” he said, smiling, “we were doing everything.”

They ended up at the Mall, where they strolled through the Museum of American History, had an early dinner at Clyde’s in Georgetown, and spent the rest of the evening at Annabel’s. She finished reading the newspapers, and he skimmed through a copy of
The A.B.C. Murders
, an old Agatha Christie novel that he found on Annabel’s bookshelves, and that set his mind toward detection, discovery, and looking twice at the obvious.

He returned to his house at eleven, walked Rufus, and immediately went to bed.

After dropping Annabel off at National Airport to catch the crowded 8
A
.
M
. shuttle, he went to a business machine store and arranged to have necessary office equipment delivered to the Watergate. He made another stop at an office supply store and ordered basic supplies.

Buffolino was at the suite when Smith arrived shortly before eleven.

“Nice suit,” Smith said.

“Thanks. I needed some new threads if I’m going to be hanging around a place like this.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Downstairs. They got a men’s shop.”

Smith raised one eyebrow.

“It was on sale.”

“I see. Are you comfortable enough here, Tony?”

“Jesus, sure I am. I really appreciate you going for this, Mac.” Buffolino looked around the living room. “Brings back old memories.”

“Unpleasant ones, I assume,” said Smith. “Frankly, I was surprised … no, shocked is more like it, that you actually chose this suite to stay in.”

Buffolino shrugged. “Yeah, well, I figured I’d relive the crime, like. Know what I mean? You see, I was afraid of this place. My life went south here. Actually, it’s not as unpleasant as I figured it might be. Funny, when I walked in here, I could almost see that dirtbag Garcia sitting in the chair. That’s one thing I’d like to do before I pack it in, Mac.”

“What’s that, Tony?”

“Find him and settle the score.”

“Tony, that case is closed. Still, when this one is over, you’ll have enough money to buy a plane ticket to Panama, if you want. He went back, didn’t he?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“You’d be on his turf.”

“That’s okay,” Tony said grimly. “He was on mine.”

Smith told Tony about the things to be delivered that day, and also said that there was the possibility he’d have to go to San Francisco, not only to dig a little further into Andrea Feldman’s background, but to find her mother, too.

“Hey, great,” Buffolino said. “Always wanted to see Frisco. Good thing I bought this suit. Maybe I should get another.”

“That one looks like it will travel well, Tony.”

The message sank in, and Buffolino made a mental note not to bring up any further mentions of personal expenditures. He said, “You know, Mac, you’re okay, putting me up in a place like this. I never figured you’d pop for it, but … well, I just want you to know I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Including what you done for me when IA set me up in here. I didn’t much go for it then, but I know you did right by me.”

Smith was becoming slightly embarrassed, and was relieved when the phone rang. He picked it up.

“Mac, Morgan Tubbs.”

“Good morning, Morgan. Come up with anything on Greist?”

“An interesting, albeit unsavory, character,” said Tubbs. “Let’s see, Herbert Greist is fifty-eight years old, a graduate of City College Law at the age of thirty. After passing the Bar, he worked for the public defender for four years after
which he became deeply involved with the ACLU, but only for a year. He’s been in private practice ever since. There seems to have been a series of offices, the latest of which is on West Seventy-eighth.”

“Yes, I have that address,” Smith said. “So far, I fail to see why you consider him to be unsavory—or even interesting.”

“Well, Mac, here’s what led me to say that. Herbert Greist seems to have a penchant for affiliating with what some would see as our less patriotic element.”

“ ‘Less patriotic’?”

“Yes. Of course, none of this comes from official sources, but as it happens, we have a young attorney here whose uncle was once involved with Greist through—well, none of that matters. What our young associate tells me is that he called his uncle, and his uncle informed him that Greist’s practice is rather restricted to lower-echelon socialist and Communist sympathizers who run afoul of authorities. According to the uncle, the FBI and CIA have dossiers on Greist several yards in length and continue to add to them.”

Buffolino motioned to Smith across the room that there was a carafe of fresh coffee. Smith nodded—yes, he wanted a cup—and said, “The FBI and CIA run files on anyone who subscribes to
The Nation
and who drinks pink lemonade. That doesn’t mean Greist is a fellow traveler.” His use of that old-fashioned, McCarthy-era term made him smile.

“True, but there is more juice here than pink lemonade, Mac.”

“Being facetious,” Smith said.

Tubbs’s voice suddenly turned jarringly proper. “I certainly hope so.”

Smith asked, “Any indication that Greist ever practiced law in San Francisco?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. He evidently was general counsel for a little more than a year to the Embarcadero Opera Company.” Tubbs laughed. “Pornographic opera, no doubt, being in San Francisco.”

“Wrong,” Smith said. “It’s a small, ambitious, and pretty damn good opera company. General counsel? Doesn’t make sense. Performing companies like that are lucky to get a
young opera-buff attorney to look over their lease. They don’t have general counsels.”

“Well, that’s what I was told. That’s right, I forgot you were an inveterate opera lover. You must miss New York.”

“Not at all,” Smith said. “The Washington Opera Company is first-rate. You say he was general counsel to the Embarcadero group. When was he out there?”

“Three years ago, I believe.”

“Hmmm,” Smith said, thinking back to a benefit performance for the Embarcadero Company he had attended in that same year at which an impressive array of singers had appeared. He’d had that same thought during Roseanna Gateaux’s performance at the Ewald gala the night Andrea Feldman was murdered: She’d been one of the stars who’d lent her name and talent to the fund-raising event for the struggling San Francisco company.

“Anything else interesting?” Smith asked.

“No, Mac, that’s about it. There were some Bar Association complaints against him, but action was never taken other than a few talks. Just your average, run-of-the-mill lowlife barrister.” He gave forth with a hearty laugh.

Smith winced at the characterization. It was undoubtedly true, but Morgan Tubbs made such characterizations of anyone who hadn’t graduated from an Ivy League school, and who dealt in any aspect of the law other than corporate high finance. “Thanks, Morgan, I appreciate your help.”

“My pleasure, Mac, but you have to promise to fill me in on all the intrigue the next time you get to New York.”

Smith managed not to commit to that before hanging up.

He sipped from the cup of coffee Buffolino had handed him, found a phone number on a scrap of paper in his pocket, and called it. Moments later, he was connected to Annabel’s suite at the Plaza. “How was the flight?” he asked.

“Fine. The suite is lovely.”

“Glad to hear it.” He filled her in on what he’d learned about Herbert Greist.

“Mac.”

“What?”

“I just had a chill.”

“Turn up the heat,” he said.

“Not that kind of chill, Mac, one that comes from inside. I can’t explain it, but something tells me this is about to become a lot more complicated than you anticipated.”

Smith laughed. “I think it will all be considerably simpler when you’ve had a chance to hear what Greist is really after. By the way, Annabel, see if you can get a handle on where Mrs. Feldman is.”

“I have that on my list of questions. Where will you be when I’m done with him?”

“Hard to say. I might be here at the Watergate.” He told her of steps he’d taken that morning to equip the place. “I want to get over to Ken and Leslie’s house sometime today. I know they’re about to hit the campaign trail again, and there are questions I need to have answered. I also want to stop in and see Paul, and to keep looking for Janet. In the rush of things, I’ve almost forgotten I have a client. Try me at home if you can’t get me at either of those two places. I’ll be anxious to hear how it goes.”

Smith had no sooner hung up when there was a knock on the door. Buffolino, who was reclining on the couch, jumped up and said, “Hey, must be lunch. I forgot I ordered it.” He opened the door and a young man in a starched white jacket, white shirt, and black bow tie wheeled in a serving cart covered with pristine linen. He removed metal covers from dishes, and took pains to make sure all the elements were in perfect order.

“Yeah, thanks, looks great,” Buffolino said, handing him some bills.

Smith came over to see what was on the table. There was a large shrimp cocktail, filet mignon, shoestring potatoes, an arugula-and-endive salad, hot rolls, and a shimmering, undulating crème caramel.

Buffolino gave Smith a sheepish grin. “Want some?” he asked. “I can’t eat all of this.”

“No, but thanks anyway, Tony. Go ahead and eat before it gets cold.”

Buffolino wedged the linen napkin between his shirt collar and neck and started in.

“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” Smith asked.

“I got some calls in around town, and out on the Coast. I figure I’ll concentrate on trying to find Ewald’s wife, Janet, unless you got something else for me to do.”

“Nothing specific. Be here when they deliver the equipment and supplies, if that won’t inconvenience you.”

Smith’s sarcasm was sharper than the knife Buffolino was using to cut his steak. He shook his head. “Hell, Mac, I’m yours. You can count on me.”

Smith left for the Ewald house. Tony Buffolino wiped his mouth, got up, and called the house where his second wife and two daughters lived. One of them, Irene, answered. “Hey, babe, it’s Daddy,” Buffolino said.

“Hello, Daddy.” Her response was pointedly cold, but Tony knew better than to mention it. He was a lousy father, and he’d never denied it. He hadn’t seen Irene or her younger sister, Marie, in over six months. “Hey, look, Irene,” he said, keeping his tone upbeat, “your old man’s made a score, a big one, big names, the biggest. You know them all, you read about them in the paper. They’re paying some good dough, and I’m set up here at a suite in the Watergate Hotel like some rich Arab in with the oil money.” He waited for a response, received none. “I want you and your sister to come up for a little party. Mom, too. It’ll be nice to spend a little time together. They got swimming pools inside and out, the best food you ever ate, the works. It’s a suite, a real big suite with more than one room. The furniture is all leather. What do you say?”

“I’ll have to ask Mommy.”

“Her, too, remember. Dinner’s on me, for her, too.”

His daughter put down the phone, and Buffolino heard soft female voices in the background. When she came back on the line, Irene asked, “When?”

“I was thinking about tonight, if you guys can make it. I think I’ll be heading for Frisco—San Francisco—in a day or two, maybe be gone a week, who knows? Yeah, how about tonight?”

His ex-wife took the phone from her daughter. “Tony, what is this crap?”

“No crap, babe. Come see for yourself. Please, you and the girls.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yup, I’m sure. Seven o’clock, suite 1117. Make it seven-thirty. I got to run some errands.”

“Tony, if this ends up some …”

“Trust me, babe, and everybody dress up. Remember how you always wanted to try caviar?”

“Yes.” She couldn’t help but laugh.

“You tasted it since we split?”

“No, but everything else has tasted better ever since.”

He let the comment slide. “Tonight’s the night, babe, all the caviar you want, and buckets a’ champagne.
Ciao!
”

As Buffolino finished his lunch at the Watergate, a limousine carrying Senator Jody Backus and Ken Ewald’s campaign manager, Ed Farmer, pulled up in front of Anton’s Loyal Opposition Bar and Restaurant. Since opening a few years earlier, on First Street NE, on Capitol Hill, it had become a favorite hangout for members of Congress. Backus hadn’t been there since deciding to run against Ewald, but he’d been announcing to his staff lately that he missed it, needed “someplace normal where this ol’ boy is comfortable.” His staff knew that his real need was Anton’s blackened redfish. He’d been expressing a yen for it for the past three days.