Murder at the Kennedy Center (25 page)

“Your other senator is Ewald, the one Andrea worked for.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Did Andrea ever talk about the campaign, about Ewald?”

“Not to me, although she probably did with her mother. Mae was very interested in politics.”

“They say Andrea had an affair with Ewald’s son.”

“Filthy lies, garbage,” she snapped. “Andrea was a sweet girl, not the type to sleep around.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what they say. The son admits it.”

“A liar, too, like his father. Fetch me another drink,” she said from her tiptoe perch.

“Fetch you …? You’ve had enough. Come on, let’s get back to our seats.”

She came down off her toes. “You darling man,” she said, “caring about my health.”

“Huh?”

“You are absolutely right. The time for drinking is after the performance. We shall go to Tosca and extend this glorious night.”

Buffolino followed dejectedly behind her as she reentered the auditorium and slowly walked down the aisle, her caftan gliding silently over the carpeting, her head held unnecessarily high, looking left and right, a queen entering her castle. Enough of you, lady, Buffolino thought as he held his head low, eyes to the floor, and slipped into his seat with a sigh of relief.

“It was great,” he said when they left the opera house. A cab took them to Columbus in the North Beach section. The Tosca Cafe was crowded, noisy, and festive, and it took some deft maneuvering to get a place at the bar, where Carla ordered cappuccino laced with brandy for both of them. An ancient jukebox played familiar arias, and individuals burst into song in every corner of the room. Buffolino nursed two
cappuccinos, while Carla downed hers as though they were soft drinks.

An hour later, the evening took its final toll. Carla leaned heavily on the bar with one elbow, put her arm around Buffolino’s neck, pulled him close, and said with a thick tongue, “The time for us to exit has come.”

Buffolino helped her outside and directed the driver to take them to the public garage in which he’d parked his rented Lincoln. Once in it, Carla immediately fell asleep, leaving Buffolino to find Santiago Street on his own. He had better luck than he anticipated, parked in front of her house, and helped her inside, tripping over cats before allowing her to sink with great flourish onto the tattered chaise. He looked down into her blotched and weary face, makeup askew, one eyelash partially off, and, oddly, felt a profound sadness. She’d fallen asleep again, her mouth an open, crooked chasm, a series of snorts and snores coming from it. He was pleased the evening had ended this way—that there was no need to continue it. He debated attempting to get her into the bedroom, but thought better of it. “Sleep it off here, baby,” he whispered as he slowly went to the front door, cast a final glance back, and returned to his car.

He sat behind the wheel and contemplated what he’d managed to learn that evening. It wasn’t much, but in one way it was more than he’d planned on.

Staring at the adjoining house that was Mae Feldman’s home, Buffolino was gripped with an overwhelming urge. First, he analyzed the situation: Carla Zaretski was passed out next door and likely to stay that way for a while. It was late; a few houses on the block had interior lights on, but not the ones on either side. He looked up and down the street, saw no one, started the engine, drove around the block, and parked a dozen houses removed from number 21.

He sat quietly again with the lights off until he was satisfied that no one was paying attention to him, got out of the car, pressed the driver’s door closed, and casually walked up the street until arriving at the door marked 21B. He cast a final glance to the right and left before going around to the rear of the house, where a small, unkempt yard served
both sides of the dwelling. There were two first-floor rear windows on Mae Feldman’s side. Buffolino chose the one to his right, the one furthest from where Carla Zaretski slept. He tried to look inside, but the window was covered by heavy drapes. He surveyed the glass for signs of a security-system tape, saw none, placed his fingers beneath the top sash bar, and pushed. Nothing. He almost laughed aloud for thinking he’d be lucky enough to find it unlocked.

Squatting, he ran his hand over the ground until his fingers came to rest on a small rock. He wrapped his handkerchief around it and gently tapped against one of the panes. The second time, he hit it a little harder. His third attempt succeeded. The glass shattered, shards of it falling at his feet, the stillness of the night magnifying for him the sounds of the glass hitting the ground. He gingerly reached inside, turned the simple window lock, raised the window as high as it would go, and pulled himself over the sill.

He stood in blackness and waited until his eyes adjusted. Soon the outline of a bed was visible in a shaft of moonlight slicing through where the drapes had parted. The last thing he wanted to do was to turn on a lamp, but it hadn’t occurred to him to pack a flashlight to go to the opera. He closed the drapes as tightly as he could, found a small table lamp on a dresser, and turned the switch. Perfect, he thought; the three-way bulb put out minimal brightness at its lowest setting. Now, everything in the room was visible.

He opened the door to a small closet and peered inside. A few pieces of clothing hung from the rod, most of it male, including two men’s suits. An assortment of shoes was on the floor. Again, the majority of them were men’s.

Buffolino pulled a jacket from one of the hangers and held it up in front of him. “Must be a damn gorilla,” he mumbled. He replaced the jacket, ran his hand along the empty shelf at the top of the closet, and closed the door.

He got on his knees and looked under the bed for boxes. Nothing there. He quickly went through the dresser drawers and discovered that, like the closet, they contained a mixture of clothing, mostly male.

He quietly opened a door and stepped into the living room. He was reluctant to turn on a light that would be visible
from the front of the house, but he didn’t have a choice. Drapes were drawn across the front picture window; that would help. He turned on a floor lamp in a corner and quickly surveyed the room, which presented him with nothing of immediate interest.

An archway led to a small foyer. Buffolino passed through it and opened a closet door. There was just enough light from the living room for him to see a metal chest about eighteen inches wide, a foot deep, and fifteen or sixteen inches high, with a handle on either end. He slid the box toward him, and was surprised at how heavy it was—some sort of fireproof metal container. He returned to the living room and placed the box on a chair beneath the lamp. The box was locked. He reached in his pants pocket for a small pocket knife and tried to jimmy the lock. No luck. He thought for a moment, then decided to take the box with him, find a way to open it in the car, check its contents, and, if all still looked peaceful, return it to the house.

He’d just switched off the lamp when he heard a noise outside the front door. He stiffened and cocked his head. Someone was inserting a key in the lock. Buffolino quickly positioned himself just inside the door, drew his .22, and waited, watched, as the lock was released and the doorknob turned.

A man, small in stature, stepped into the foyer. He held a revolver in his hand. Buffolino struck, the weight of his right hand and weapon coming down squarely on the back of the man’s neck. The intruder fell to the floor, and Buffolino leaped on top of him, twisted the arm that held the revolver and brought it up sharply behind the man’s back, causing the revolver to fall, and the intruder to shout in pain.

Buffolino never saw the second person come through the door, only felt the thud of a heavy object against the base of his skull. He pitched forward, semiconscious, his .22 sliding across the tile foyer floor. He desperately reached for it, but the second man drove his foot into his temple. A sudden burst of brilliant white pinpoints of light preceded blackness.

* * *

He was out for only a few minutes. He sensed that, got to his hands and knees, blinked against the pain in his head, and was aware that his revolver was gone.

He pulled himself to his feet and made a quick decision to leave the way he’d entered, through the back, reasoning that whoever had attacked him didn’t know he’d come through a broken window in the rear. He passed through the living room, saw that the metal box was no longer where he’d left it, and cursed every step that sent a spasm through his skull. He entered the bedroom and listened at the window. It occurred to him how lucky he was. Whoever they were, they were armed. They could have shot him instead of just roughing him up. Small blessings. “Count ’em, Tony,” he muttered as he placed his left leg through the window. Once that foot was secure outside, he dragged his right leg behind him, the one whose injury had almost prematurely ended his career as a cop. He’d hit the floor in the foyer pretty hard, and that knee ached.

Now he was outside, maybe not with what he’d gone in for, but he was out—and alive—aching knee and head be damned.

He placed his hands on the windowsill, drew a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. It was when all the breath was out of him that he became aware of someone behind him. He slowly turned to see the moon’s rays reflecting off the barrel of a shotgun. “Hey, wait a minute,” he started to say as the face belonging to the shotgun came into focus. Carla Zaretski stood there, the gun shaking in her hand, her face the same weary, swollen mess it had been when he’d brought her home.

“Carla, it’s me, I—”

The shotgun discharged with a roar, the pellets from the shell tearing into the flesh of his right thigh from just below his crotch to his knee. Her second blast, which resulted from an uncontrollable spasm in her fingers, missed him and sprayed the wall with pellets. The force of the first shot blew his right leg out from under him and spun him around. He fell against the house and slid down it, a broad crimson smear tracing his descent. His only words before passing out were, “Not the knee, not the goddamn knee …”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, two uniformed policemen and two paramedics placed Tony Buffolino on a stretcher after taking emergency measures to stop the bleeding. Carla Zaretski sobbed between swallows of straight rye from a tall kitchen glass. “I heard noise and went into the backyard,” she said for the tenth time. “I saw the broken window and called the police. I didn’t know who it was.”

“Will he make it?” one of the cops asked a kneeling medic.

“Yeah, but he’s lost more blood than the four of us own. Come on, let’s move.”

“You have any idea why he’d break in like this?” one of the cops asked Carla. “You live next door, right?”

“Yes. No, I don’t know. Maybe it was …” Had he been after her in a fit of passion? That question comforted her long after Buffolino had been taken away and the police had completed their questioning.

Mac Smith and Annabel Reed sat together on the terrace outside the Watergate suite. Coffee and Danish pastries were on a table between them. Directly in front and below was the Potomac; the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts was visible to their left.

They’d just started discussing their recent experiences when a ringing phone interrupted them. They both started to get up, but Smith was quicker. Annabel listened from the terrace, heard him say, “Yes, this is Smith. I’m sorry, your name is …? Dr. Thelen, Max Thelen? Yes, I can hear you better now, Dr. Thelen. You’re with Moffitt Hospital? Yes, I understand, part of the University of California Medical Center. What can I do for you, Doctor?”

Annabel entered the room as the expression on Smith’s face changed from simple interest to shock.

“He’s alive, you say. He
is
expected to survive.”

Smith listened to the caller’s answer and said, “Yes, yes, I’m relieved to hear that. Please, Dr. Thelen, one moment.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece and said to Annabel, “Tony’s been shot. He lost a lot of blood. It was his leg. He’s okay.” He returned to his conversation with the doctor.
“Do you have any details on who shot him? I see. Yes. Well, thank you, Doctor, thank you very much.”

“Who shot him?” Annabel asked when he hung up.

“The doctor wasn’t certain about that. Let me make a call.”

Smith reached Joe Riga at MPD, told him what had happened to Buffolino, and asked if he could get any information from the San Francisco police.

“Yeah, I’ll make a call, Mac. I’ll get back to you.”

Riga called fifteen minutes later and told Smith that Buffolino had broken into a home owned by one Carla Zaretski, who’d shot him as an intruder.

“He broke into
her
house? He told me he was taking her out to dinner and to the opera.”

“Mac, I’m telling you what I got from a detective I know in Frisco. Here’s the number, if you want to find out more. Hey, don’t be so shocked. Tony’s elevator doesn’t always reach the top. Likable, maybe, but a whack job.”

Smith poised to argue the point but didn’t.

Mac and Annabel returned to the terrace and sat quietly. She asked him what he intended to do next.

“Well, Annie, there are now two people missing, Janet Ewald
and
Marcia Mims. I’m going to make some calls concerning Marcia. I also want to stop in at MPD and …”

“And what?”

“I’ve got to go to San Francisco. Can you come with me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What about the gallery?”

“I’ve already been drawn into this by your magnetic and persuasive personality, Mr. Smith, and I may as well stay in for the duration. I’ll spend time with James at the gallery this afternoon. When do you want to leave?”

“I’m tied up tomorrow. How about Saturday?”

“Fine. I’ll book us a flight. By the way, one of the men who I think was following me in New York was on my shuttle yesterday.”

Smith turned to her and said sternly, “And you tell me this as an afterthought? I wonder if I’ll ever get anybody on my side to speak out fully. Did you get a better look at him?”

“Yes. No long, jagged scars on the cheek, no shaved head. Looked like all the other businessmen on the flight.”