Murder at the Kennedy Center (28 page)

“Yes.” The doctor winked. “Been here almost every minute since he was brought in. An obvious accident. She thought he was a burglar.”

“So I heard,” Smith said.

“She was an opera star,” Thelen said.

“Really?” Smith said. “Maybe if she thought he was a burglar, she thought she was an opera star.”

Thelen laughed. “No, she’s actually had quite a career. She told me all about it.”

“I’m sure she has. We won’t stay long.”

Tony was dozing in a chair when they entered his room. His leg was bandaged from hip to foot. A dying old man was in the other bed, his eyes fluttering, his frail body hooked up to a variety of high-tech medical equipment.

Carla Zaretski sat next to Tony, holding his hand. When she was aware of Smith and Annabel, she looked up. “You must be Mr. Smith.” She said to Buffolino, “Tony, your partner is here.”

Buffolino opened his eyes and focused on Smith’s face. “Mac.” He freed his hand from Carla’s grasp and reached up to Smith, who gripped it firmly. “How’s it going, Tony?”

“Not bad. At least it wasn’t the goddamn knee.”

“Hello,” Annabel said as Tony shifted his eyes to her.

“Well, the famous Annabel Reed.” He smiled. “He drag you out here? How do you put up with this guy?” he asked. He started to laugh, which sent him into a painful coughing spell. When he regained control, he introduced Carla to them, and they chatted about Tony’s condition. Smith asked, “Would you mind if I had a few words alone with him?” He indicated to Annabel with his eyes that she should accompany Carla out of the room.

Smith sat in Carla’s chair. “I’m glad you’re going to be okay, Tony. You’re lucky she didn’t aim a few inches higher.”

“Or lower. The knee means more to me these days.”

“Why were you breaking into her house?”

“I wasn’t. She owns the house, but it’s a two-family place.
Mae Feldman rents one side from her.” He grimaced in pain.

“Are you all right?” Smith asked. “I’ll get a nurse.”

“No, it’s okay. I figured I might as well take a look inside Feldman’s place, so I came through a back window.”

“And she caught you.”

“No. She was in her place sleeping off too much hooch. I found this locked box in a closet in Feldman’s foyer and was going to take it out to the car when two guys came through the front. I didn’t know there were two of them. The second one nailed me.”

“Recognize them?”

“No. The first one had a piece. He was a little guy.”

“Little guy? Very little?”

“Not big. I didn’t see either of them good, Mac. Anyway, I come to and go back out the rear window, only the queen wakes up when she hears me getting it, figures somebody’s rippin’ off next door, grabs a freakin’ shotgun, and does me. She didn’t know who I was till it was too late. She’s okay, a pain in the butt, but okay. Drinks too much.”

Smith said, “I’ll bet. Did the little guy and his partner take the box?”

“Yeah. When I come to, it was gone.” He sounded angry.

“That’s all right, Tony. The only thing you should be thinking about is getting better.” Smith could see that Buffolino was drowsy. He asked, “Anything else in Mae Feldman’s apartment? See anything interesting besides the box?”

“No, she must have a guy lives with her. Either that or she’s a dyke. Most of the clothes are men’s clothes, cheap stuff, cut funny. Maybe she lives with King Kong.”

“King Kong?”

“Yeah, the sleeves on the jacket I looked at were funny, long, hung down. Know what I mean?”

“Yes, I think so.” Smith thought of the description of Herbert Greist Annabel had given him when she returned from New York. He asked, “Does your friend out there know where Mae is?”

“No. She said she goes away a lot. I guess she really took off this time.”

Smith frowned. “Tony, does Carla know that the men
who beat you up also took a box from Feldman’s side of the house?”

“Ask her.”

“No, I’m not sure I want to do that. You say there was a lot of men’s clothing?”

“Right, suits, shirts, underwear, shoes.”

Smith looked over at the dying old man and hoped
he
wouldn’t end up that way, frail, alone, tied to machines. “Tony, I would love to get back into Mae Feldman’s side of that house.”

“Shouldn’t be hard. Carla will let you in.”

“She will?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I’d rather get in there without her knowing about it. Any ideas?”

Buffolino closed his eyes and moved his tongue over his dry lips. He opened his eyes and looked at Carla’s purse on the floor next to Smith’s chair. “Take her keys,” he said.

Smith had to smile. He was not anxious to be arrested in San Francisco for illegal entry. It wouldn’t look good when he returned to teaching law at the university. Still, the temptation was strong. “Tony, do you think she’ll hang around here for the rest of the day?”

“Probably. That’s one favor I want from you. Get the queen off my back, huh?”

“I’ll do my best, but I want a favor from you, too. Keep her here for three or four hours. Make nice with her.”

“You ask a lot for a grand a week, Mac.”

“I’ll give you a bonus. For war wounds, and double-time for Carla.”

“Okay. Hey, another favor for me. Call my wife—wives—and let ’em know what happened to me, only don’t make it sound too bad. And don’t tell ’em about the queen out there. Maybe you could say I got gunned down by some mafioso, something glamorous, and tell ’em I’m still on the case and that they don’t have to worry about money. Okay?”

“Of course. It’s true. You are still on the case, and you don’t have to worry about money. Anything else I can do
for you in return for this great sacrifice you’ve made on my behalf with the lady out there?”

“Get me back to Washington. This is a nice place, and the doctors are great, but it’s too far away, Mac, too far away.”

“I’ll arrange it. George Washington University has an excellent hospital and staff.”

There was no further need for words. Tony looked at the closed door, reached over, slipped his hand into Carla’s purse, and came out with a set of keys. He handed them to Smith.

“Here. Now you didn’t take ’em.”

Smith said, “We’ll have these back in a few hours. Remember, keep your opera-singing friend happy
and here
. I’ll check in with you later.”

When the women returned, Smith asked Carla, “Will you be staying with my partner a while?”

“Yes, I could never leave this dear man alone in such strange and threatening surroundings.”

“You’re a very good person, Ms. Zaretski.” It suddenly dawned on Smith: She was more than attracted—Carla had fallen in love with Tony. Tony deserved an even bigger bonus than Smith had planned. He kept his smile to himself.

“Well, Ms. Reed and I have some business to attend to,” he said. “We’ll be back later today.”

“A pleasure to meet both of you,” Carla said.

“The feeling is entirely mutual, Ms. Zaretski,” Smith said as he took Annabel’s elbow and guided her out of the room.

Downstairs, Smith handed Annabel the keys from Carla Zaretski’s purse.

“What are these?”

“The keys to Carla’s house. I assume one of them fits the door to the side Mae Feldman lives in. I want you to go there, Annabel, and take a good look through Feldman’s side.”

“Mac, where did you get these?”

“Tony took them from her purse. He’s going to make sure she stays here until you get back.”

“Oh, Mac, I don’t think that I should be …”

“You have to.”

“Why do I have to?”

“Because you’re a breed of woman who will do anything for the man she loves. Grab a cab, look around out there, get back here as soon as you can, go up to Tony’s room, figure out a way to get Carla out of it, and he’ll replace the keys in her purse. Nobody will know the difference.”

“Why don’t we go together?”

“Because I have other things to do. We’ll meet up at the hotel.”

“All right, Mac, but I want you to know that behind that distinguished, pleasant facade lurks your real self.”

“Which is?”

“A devoted second-story man and con artist.” She kissed his cheek and went outside to where a line of cabs waited.

At the end of the day, Smith went to their hotel, the Raphael on Union Square, and ordered up a bucket of ice, bottles of vodka and scotch, and two club sandwiches. He stripped off his clothes, took a hot shower, turned on the television, and poured himself a drink. He took a halfhearted bite from one of the sandwiches, turned down the TV’s volume, and dialed the telephone. One of the staff answered; a few moments later, Ewald was on the line.

“This is Mac. I’m calling from San Francisco.”

“What are you doing out there?”

“Running down some leads.”

“Leads to what?”

“To what seems to be an evolving scenario that gets more tangled with every step.”

“I don’t understand. Paul is home. The charges have been dropped. What scenario are you talking about?”

“I’ll be back in Washington tomorrow night. We have to talk Monday morning.”

“About what?”

“Do you know a New York attorney named Herbert Greist?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Well, you’re about to. Ken, this is not for the phone. I only called to let you know that I think we should talk as soon as possible.”

Ewald’s sigh was audible. “All right, but my schedule is
really getting jammed. The polls are looking up again—and I want to keep them that way. Is there something I should be especially concerned about?”

“We can explore that when we get together. Say hello to Leslie.”

Annabel arrived an hour later. “How’d it go?” Smith asked.

“Better than it went for you, I think. Are you drunk?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He refilled his glass as she kicked off her shoes, discarded her suit jacket, and flopped on the bed. He handed her a drink.

“Mac, did you get the impression at the hospital that Madame Zaretski has fallen for our Tony?”

Smith laughed. “I plan to be best man at the wedding. What did you find at Mae Feldman’s house?”

“Not much. There’s a lot of male clothing in the closets.”

“Yes, Tony told me that.”

“As I was looking around, I kept thinking of what you’d told me about Andrea Feldman’s apartment in Washington, sparse, looking as though it weren’t really lived in. Her mother’s place is the same. It’s so Spartan, very little personal around.”

“Like mother, like daughter. Did you notice anything unusual about the male clothing, particularly the suits?”

“I didn’t look very closely at them. I felt them. Cheap fabric.”

“You didn’t pull out a jacket and look at it?”

“No, why would I do that?”

“I’m not saying you should have, but Tony did.”

“He did? Why?”

“Because he’s been an investigator a long time, I suppose. Remember the description you gave me of Herbert Greist?”

“Of course.”

“You said his arms were especially long, and that one arm was longer than the other.”

“That’s right.”

“Funny, Tony said the jacket he examined in Mae Feldman’s apartment looked like it would fit King Kong.”

She laughed. “Are you saying …?”

“I’m suggesting that it’s possible that Herbert Greist at least uses Mae Feldman’s closets for winter storage.”

“Or had a relationship with her that was a little closer than that.”

“Exactly.”

Annabel went into the bathroom, whistling on her way. Smith sat in the chair and observed her looking into the mirror and correcting a fault with her eyebrow that only she could see. Strange, he thought, that she would react in such a cavalier manner to the possibility he’d just raised about Greist.

She returned to the main room and changed channels on the television.

“Annabel, did you hear what I said?”

She looked at him and opened her eyes wide. “Yes, I heard you.”

“And?”

“I think you’ll need more tangible proof that the suits in the closet belong to Herbert Greist.”

“Of course I need more tangible evidence, but don’t you think it’s …”

She got up, came to him, and touched him lightly on the nose with her index finger. Her smile was playful. “Would you like more tangible evidence?”

“Wait a minute, what are you holding back from me?”

She pulled something from her purse and handed it to Smith. “This was buried beneath clothing in one of the drawers.”

Smith looked down at a photo of a man he judged to be in his early twenties. “Who is this?” he asked.

“Herbert Greist.”

“This is Greist? This is a young man.”

“Mae Feldman was obviously a young woman when she had Andrea. Sure, Greist is a lot older now, but this is him, Mac, the young Herbert Greist, Communist sympathizer, blackmailer, Mae Feldman’s lover, and, probably, the father of a dead daughter named Andrea Feldman.”

Smith scrutinized the photograph more carefully, looked at Annabel, and said, “You’re sure this is Greist?”

“Yes. Young, old, it’s his face.”

Annabel started to remove her clothing in the center of the room.

“Good job, Annie.”

“As good an investigator as Tony?”

Smith sighed. “Yes.”

“I only did it because I am the breed of woman who will do anything for the man she loves.”

“Enough,” Smith said. “You got the keys back in Carla’s purse?”

She looked sternly at him. “Of course. I also follow orders very well. By the way, Tony hopes we’ll arrange to get him out of here and back to Washington.”

“I’ve already put that in motion. I made some calls after you left the hospital.”

She was now naked. “You are a beautiful breed of woman, Annabel Reed.”

“Thank you.”

He stood and removed what little clothing he wore, crossed the room, and embraced her.

“Hard feelings seem to have suddenly developed between us,” she said.

He said into her ear, “We can’t have that, can we?”

They resolved it shortly thereafter.

Smith and Annabel flew back to Washington on Sunday. He called Ken Ewald first thing Monday morning.

“I’m on my way to St. Louis for a fund-raising luncheon,” Ewald said.