Murder at the Kennedy Center (36 page)

A weary smile crossed his gray face. It would work now that they couldn’t complicate his life. It was always someone else who caused trouble.

Tony Buffolino said to the desk clerk, who’d just awakened from a nap, “I got to see somebody upstairs.” The clerk shrugged and opened a magazine featuring naked couples. Tony cursed the lack of an elevator as he slowly went up the stairs, his leg throbbing with every step. When he reached the fourth-floor landing, he stared at the door to number 7, went to it, listened, then knocked. There was no response. He knocked again. Nothing. Had this all been a joke? Had whoever was there decided it might be a trap and left? Had Greist made that decision?

“Who is it?” a voice asked through the door.

“Tony Buffolino. I got something for you from the senator.”

There was silence again.

Buffolino knocked. “Hey, open up. I got what you want, and I ain’t gonna stand out in this hall much longer.” Something smelled bad to Buffolino, and it wasn’t the urine versus the cheap disinfectant that permeated the hotel. Why the delay in opening the door? This was to be a simple transaction. He pulled his .22 from beneath his arm and concealed it behind the aluminum Samsonite case.

Inside, Greist was going through his own set of concerns. It hadn’t occurred to him until that moment that the person in the hallway might not be delivering money. It could be a trap, the FBI, the New York police. Ewald might have set him up. He put his mouth close to the door and said, “Identify yourself.”

“For Christ’s sake, I already told you my name is Tony Buffolino and I got the money you’re waiting for. Password,
Ewald. Five seconds, no more. Five seconds or you can go whistle.”

A lock was undone, the handle was turned, and the door opened slowly. The gray man backed up to the center of the small room and stood at the foot of the bed. Tony stepped over the threshold. Greist held a leather bag in his left hand; his right hand was in his topcoat pocket.

“Here,” Buffolino said, making a little move toward Greist with the aluminum case. “Here’s your money.”

Greist backed up further until he was almost to the window. “Put it on the bed,” he said. “Just put it on the bed and get out.”

“Yeah, sure, no sweat.” Tony kept his eyes on Greist’s right-hand coat pocket. You’ve got a piece in there, he thought. Because his weapon was already drawn and hidden behind the metal case, he wouldn’t have a problem getting the drop on the man, whoever he was.

Buffolino slowly walked to the foot of the bed. He realized that the moment he tossed the case on it, his revolver would be exposed. That’s okay, he told himself. Dump the case, hold him in place with the gun, and back out. No sweat. But then his eyes went to a red smear on the windowsill, to Greist’s left. No question about it. Why would there be blood on the windowsill? Who was this guy? Had he killed someone else? Buffolino noticed that the window behind the man was fully open.

“I got a question for you,” Buffolino said.

“No questions. Leave the money,” Greist snapped, his right hand stirring.

“Somethin’ ain’t kosher here,” Buffolino said. “Are you Greist?”

“I said no questions.” The guy was obviously on the edge now. His hand started to come out of his pocket. Buffolino didn’t hesitate. He tossed the metal case into Greist’s chest. Buffolino’s cane had been dangling from his left wrist. He grabbed the curved handle, held it out, and threw himself at Greist, the point of the cane catching him in the chest and driving him back and halfway out the window. Buffolino was instantly on top of him. He pressed the snout of
his revolver tight against Greist’s left temple. “You move that right hand, loser, and you’re dead meat.”

He yanked Greist up straight by the front of his coat and threw him against the wall, knocking a lamp to the floor. He rammed his revolver against the back of Greist’s neck and said, “Okay, creep, you pull that right hand out real slow.”

Greist did as he was told, his revolver dangling from his index finger. “Lay it on the table nice and easy,” Buffolino said. “Do it my way, or I’m gonna leave a lot of you on this wall.”

Greist lowered the weapon to the table and deposited it with a clunk.

“Nice, you take instructions real good,” Buffolino said. “Turn around, slow, very slow.”

Greist followed instructions and stood with his back to the wall, his arms raised above his head. There was a wild, frightened look on his face. Buffolino realized for the first time how old he was. At least he looked old, sickly, all gray and pasty, breath coming hard.

“What’s your name?” Buffolino asked.

“This is wrong,” Greist said. “Don’t you know what you’ve done? I’ll tell what I know about Senator Ewald.”

“You know nothin’,” Buffolino said. He nodded toward the windowsill. “Whose blood is that?”

“Blood?”

“Yeah, don’t play dumb with me. You stay right here, don’t move, don’t even blink. You blink, you’re a former human being.” He slowly backed to the windowsill, his .22 leveled at Greist’s chest. He ran a finger over the red blotch and examined what came off the sill.

“You don’t understand,” Greist said, trying to inject calm and reason into his voice. “We can make a deal. Believe me, I—”

“Shut up!” Buffolino leaned out the window, dividing his attention between Greist and the air shaft. He quickly looked down and saw the body at the bottom. He checked Greist and looked down again, longer this time. “Oh, damn it to hell,” he said, “no.” Looking up at him, with her heavily
made-up eyes and garish red mouth formed into a twisted smile, was Carla.

“What’d you do that for?” he said to Greist.

“Please, listen to me. We can split the money you have. Give me half. Just give me a quarter of it, so I can leave. Take the rest. I won’t say anything to anyone.”

Buffolino came up close to Greist once again and shoved his revolver up under Greist’s chin. Greist whimpered, whined, “No, please, don’t.”

“What the hell did you kill her for? What’d she ever do to you?”

“She was …” He had trouble speaking because of the iron pressure under his chin. “She was stupid. Let’s talk. I know we can …”

Buffolino took a few steps back. His face was a mask of rage and frustration. What he did next was pure reflex, no thought directing the movement. He brought his cane up off the floor and smashed the end of it against the right side of Greist’s face. Greist slowly slipped to his knees. He’d begun to cry.

“You cockroach. Come on, stop your bawlin’ and get up.”

Greist preceded Buffolino out of the room and they slowly made their way down the narrow stairs, Buffolino somehow carrying both cases and his cane in his left hand, his right hand steadying his revolver at the back of Greist’s head. His leg throbbed, and he misstepped. Greist began to run. Buffolino found his balance and stumbled after him through the lobby. The desk clerk looked up from his magazine, and when he saw the gun in Buffolino’s hand, threw up his magazine and ducked so that he was below the level of the counter. Greist made it through the front door.

Across the street, two men in raincoats came at him. Tony looked left and right; men dressed similarly closed in from the sides. Greist was surrounded and held. One pulled out a badge. “Simmons, FBI.”

“Yeah, I knew you guys were coming. Tony Buffolino. This is the shyster Herbert Greist. There’s a body at the bottom of an air shaft. Mr. Greist pushed a nice older woman out the window.”

“You don’t understand,” Greist wailed. “It was an accident. She jumped.”

“And hit her head on the windowsill going out,” Buffolino said with disgust. Simmons, the leader of the group, dispatched two of his men to confirm what Tony had said. They returned and reported that there was, indeed, a dead woman at the bottom of the air shaft.

“So, here he is, your Commie spy. You don’t mind if I leave him with you? I got to check in with my boss. And here’s his bag. Empty, like him.”

“You have to come with us,” one of the agents said.

“No, let him go,” said Simmons. “You’re going to meet with Mackensie Smith at the Waldorf?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“We’ll contact you there. Nice job.”

“Yeah,” Tony muttered. “Nice job.” He looked at Greist. “I should’ve done you up there, creep. She was a nice lady—a little kookie maybe, but nice. You shouldn’t’ve done that to her. She didn’t deserve it.”

He limped painfully up the street, the brushed aluminum Samsonite case in his left hand, the cane in his right, supporting his weight. A rare Sunday night in the rain yellow cab stopped at a corner and discharged a passenger. Tony slid into the backseat and laid his leg across it. “The Waldorf Astoria,” he said painfully, “and don’t step on it.”

Special Agent Simmons came to the Waldorf the next morning and took a deposition from Buffolino. He thanked Smith for his help in setting up Herbert Greist, and told him they’d keep in touch.

The three of them caught an early shuttle to Washington. The hired car dropped Annabel off at her home, and took Smith and Buffolino to the Watergate.

“What’s that you’re humming?” Buffolino asked as he and Smith waited for the elevator.

Smith smiled. “I didn’t realize I was humming anything. It’s ‘Celeste Aida’ from Verdi’s
Aida
.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Yes, it’s a love song, one of my favorites.”

“Yeah, nice. I was learnin’ to like opera.”

They stepped out on their floor. Directly in front of them was a large mirror over a marble-topped table. A bouquet of red and yellow fresh flowers dominated it. A young man, who’d been standing by the table, quickly turned his back to them and examined the flowers.

“That guy don’t smell right to me,” Buffolino said as they walked down the hall.

“I didn’t notice,” said Smith. “He might be part of the hotel security staff.”

Smith called Ken Ewald at home and was told by a secretary he’d be back in two hours. He hung up and said to Tony, “With Greist out of the way, I’d say we’re getting close to winding things up.”

“Yeah, maybe, except we still got to find Janet Ewald.”

“Yes, that’s true, and Marcia Mims, too. Why don’t you get on the phone and see what you can accomplish. I’m going back to the house. See you at four.”

In a motel room in Miami Beach, Florida, Janet Ewald sat alone. It was a small motel that catered to young people; signs outside heralded free drinks for women between 4:00 and 7:00
P
.
M
., wet T-shirt contests on Wednesday nights, and chug-a-lug competitions every Friday. The fierce Florida sun threatened to burn through purple drapes Janet had drawn tightly across the window. The television set was on but without sound. A game show was in progress.

She sat in a purple vinyl chair, her arms tightly wrapped around herself; she was wearing a cardigan sweater because the blast of the air conditioner, even turned low, chilled her. She rocked forward and back. The chair was stationary; she created the rocking motion with her own body. She continued moving until a painful whine from deep inside came through her lips and nose and caused her to violently throw her head forward, then back against the chair.

She looked across the bed at a table and a white telephone. She’d reached for that phone many times since arriving at the motel the previous afternoon, had actually picked up the receiver on occasion, but never dialed.

Standing unsteadily, she went around the bed, sat on it, and read the instructions about how to dial. She was confused by them. She opened her purse, removed a small address book, slowly turned its pages until coming to the
C
section, and squinted at the handwritten number next to Geoffrey Collins’s name. She dialed.

“Dr. Collins’s office,” his receptionist said.

The sound of a voice on the other end startled Janet.

“Hello, Dr. Collins’s office.”

“Hello. This is … this is Janet Ewald.”

“Oh, Mrs. Ewald. Where are you calling from?”

The question threw her. Did the receptionist know she’d been missing? Could she trust her? Could she trust anyone?

“Mrs. Ewald?”

“Yes … is the doctor in?”

“Yes, he’s in session, but … please hold on.”

A few moments later, Collins came on the line. “Janet, how are you? Everyone has been worried about you.”

“Yes, I know they have. Dr. Collins, I …”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, no … Oh, Doctor, I just want to die.”

“Why would you want to do that, Janet? You’re young. Nothing can be so bad that we need death to resolve it.”

“You don’t understand. I know so much … I know things … I’m afraid.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in Florida.”

Collins’s laugh was professional. “I wish I were there. Is the weather good?”

“Yes, very nice …”

“Janet, will you come back, come directly to me? Surely, you’re not afraid of me. I’ve always been your friend, and I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”

She was silent.

“Janet. Are you there?”

“Yes. I know I should come back. I have to talk to someone. I talked to Mr. Smith, but then I got scared again and ran away.”

“Mr. Smith?”

“Mackensie Smith, my father-in-law’s friend.”

“Oh, Mac Smith. Why don’t you come back and let the two of us help you through this?”

“All right. I mean, I might.”

“Here’s what I suggest, Janet. Enjoy the sun, have a good rest tonight, and take a plane first thing tomorrow morning. Call now and make a reservation. When you get to Washington, come directly to my office. Call and let me know what time you’ll be here.”

“All right.”

“Do you want me to call Mac Smith?”

“No, that’s—yes, call him. I trust him. I trust you.” She hung up.

Smith returned to the Watergate at four and asked Buffolino, “How’s the leg?”

“Pretty good. What are you up to tonight?”

“Annabel and I promised Ken Ewald that we’d attend a fund-raiser tonight at the Four Seasons Hotel. The arts crowd is throwing a party for him.”

“Should be fun. I’ll come along.”

“No, you stay here and rest. After what you went through in New York, you could use a little relaxation.”