Murder at the Kennedy Center (42 page)

The mention of her name hit Ewald physically. He realized the aide was waiting for an answer. He said, “Put her through.”

“Roseanna?” he said after the aide was gone.

“I know I shouldn’t be calling you like this but …”

“It’s all right.” He didn’t say he was aware that she was the one person capable of ruining his chances for the presidency, and ruining his marriage, which was, Lord knew, shaky enough.

“Ken, could I possibly see you for a few minutes? I promise it won’t take me long to say what I have to say.”

He wanted to say no, but he was afraid to. They hadn’t
had any contact since the events of a month ago, and he knew it had to be that way. Still, there was a part of him that thought it better to resolve problems face-to-face, and in this case to make it plain that there could never be a relationship again. He took into consideration the fact that he had scheduled this private time, and that Leslie would not be back for at least another two hours. “Yes,” he said, “but I only have a few minutes. Where are you?”

“Downstairs in the hotel.”

“All right, please come up.”

His secretary ushered Roseanna into the room. Ewald was aware of a questioning look on the secretary’s face and quickly dismissed her, saying, “It’s okay. Five minutes.”

“You look very good,” Roseanna said, not moving from just inside the door.

“So do you. You do know, Roseanna, that this will be the last time we will ever be alone together. It has to be that way.”

“I understand. I only came here to tell you that you need never worry about me, need never wake up in the middle of the night and wonder whether what we shared together will ever become public knowledge. No kiss-and-tell books, no talk-show interviews, no articles in the
National Enquirer
.”

He smiled. The smile represented relief at her words, as well as certain sadness at what they meant. “Come, sit,” he said.

“No, I know you don’t have the time, and—”

“Sit down, Roseanna, just for a minute.”

They sat in armchairs that were side by side and looked at each other. She was the most inordinately beautiful woman he’d ever known, possessing a beauty so different from Leslie’s; a difference that was, after all, part of the attraction.

She said, “You will become president.”

“I don’t know, Roseanna. I’m trying very hard to be, although I’m not sure I should.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because … because I’m not sure any longer that I’m the man to sit in such a position of power, of life and death.”

Her hand poised in midair as though having a mind of its own, then decided to come down on top of his hand, lightly, fingertips only. Her eyes filled as she said, “I think this country will be very fortunate to have you leading it, and I consider
myself
very fortunate to have been able to touch you, to know you.”

He was embarrassed, and looked away.

She stood. “Ken, what we had was very special to me. I know we will never have it again, and that is a sorrow. At the same time, I celebrate, rather than mourn, what I’ve lost. Good luck tonight. I’ll be watching.”

Before he could say anything, she went to the door, opened it and paused as though about to deliver an exit line, then went through it, and was gone.

Mac Smith, Annabel Reed, and Tony Buffolino had taken the afternoon to ride the cable car to Fisherman’s Wharf, where they’d browsed the eclectic wares of sidewalk artisans, bought chocolate in Ghirardelli Square, eaten crab and calamari out of small paper bowls purchased from vendors along Jefferson Street, walked out of the famous Boudin Bakery with loaves of sourdough bread, and returned to the Raphael Hotel footsore and happy.

They sat in Buffolino’s room and toasted their good day with champagne.

Eventually, the conversation got around to the events that had brought them together in this place. Buffolino asked Smith what he thought of Ed Farmer’s chances in his trial. Farmer had pleaded not guilty, and had hired a top D.C. lawyer, Morris Jankowski.

“Jankowski is good,” Smith said. “He’ll find plenty of holes in the prosecution’s case, including my testimony, which, I’m sure, Jankowski will paint as unimportant, create an atmosphere in which I had a personal grudge against Farmer, misunderstood what he was saying.”

“Can you believe this about Greist?” Annabel said, picking up that day’s San Francisco
Examiner
and tossing it back on a table. “Ridiculous!” Herbert Greist had suffered a fatal heart attack. The story in the
Examiner
was based
on charges by a left-wing group that the Bureau might have killed him.

Smith laughed. “Tomorrow we’ll read that a right-wing group is accusing the Communists of killing him to keep him quiet.”

“Ya know, Greist looked like a guy with a bum ticker,” Buffolino said.

“Anybody hear anything new about the Miguel person?” Annabel asked.

Buffolino said, “They’ll never get him to admit any connection to Morales.”

“Or to Kane,” Smith said.

“Or to Backus,” said Buffolino.

“Or to Thornton,” Annabel said.

“Possibly because he didn’t have a connection to any of them except Morales,” Smith said.

“Getting soft in your old age,” Annabel said.

“No, just getting less cynical as I enter into
middle age
. More champagne?” Smith asked. He refilled their glasses.

Buffolino asked, “Do you believe your buddy, Shevlin, about the box in Mae Feldman’s house?”

Smith grunted, nodded. “Yes, I don’t see any reason for him to lie to me. The FBI has wanted those files for a long time. They figured out where they might be and took them. They just also ended up with a couple of hundred thousand dollars in cash. What they didn’t figure out was that Mae Feldman and Carla Zaretski were one and the same. Sorry you had to learn it under such nasty circumstances, Tony.”

Buffolino scowled. “And I got cold-cocked in her house by a couple of Bureau guys.” He looked up as though to commune with God. “Jesus, there I was with a box with all Ewald’s files and all that cash.” He laughed. “You never would have seen me again.”

“I doubt that,” Smith said. “You’re a man of honor, Tony.”

“Yeah, that’s me, the honorable Anthony Buffolino.” He raised his glass. “A toast to Mackensie Smith, who did good by me. I hope you know how much I appreciate everything, Mac.”

“My pleasure.” Smith had paid Tony a bonus, and arranged a security job for him at the university.

“A toast to you, Tony,” said Annabel. “You’re a lot nicer than what Mac said you’d be.”

“Hey, Mac, what did you tell her? No matter. To you, Annabel, a real classy lady.”

“Ready for an announcement?” Smith asked.

“What kind a’ announcement?”

“We’ve decided to get married.”

“No kidding?”

“Yes,” Annabel said, giggling. “Isn’t it wonderful? Two can live as cheaply as one, if you cut down on the takeout dinners. We’re going to London on our honeymoon.”

“Hey, congrats. If you have any problems, married-people problems, any questions, just ask me. I got experience.”

“Up to being best man, Tony?” Smith asked.

“I thought I was all along.” He stood and twirled his cane in the air. “London. I can’t wait.”

Mac and Annabel looked at each other.

“I’m goin’ with you, right?”

“No,” Smith said.

“No,” Annabel said.

“No?”

“No,” they said in unison.

“I guess you mean no.”

“Yes, we mean no.”

Tony Buffolino was invited to remain in San Francisco for a few days after the convention as the personal guest of Ken Ewald. He was put up in a penthouse suite at the Mark Hopkins, for, as Ewald said, “your heroism in the lobby of the Watergate Hotel on my behalf.” Tony was delighted; he’d fallen madly in love with Alicia, a cocktail waitress at the Top of the Mark, and told Mac Smith that if he moved fast enough, there might be a double wedding.

Mac and Annabel shook their heads and flew back to Washington the day after the convention. Newspapers on their laps said it all:
EWALD DEM CHOICE BY ACCLAMATION
.
BACKUS HIS VEEP
. A large photograph of Ewald and
Backus with their hands clasped and raised, their families at their sides, dominated the front pages.

“I’m proud of you,” Annabel said, after their flight had taken off.

“For what?”

“For the way you turned Ken down when he asked you to manage his campaign, and to become attorney general.”

“What else could I do with a redheaded honey badger standing within striking distance behind me?”

“For a second, I thought you might say yes.”

“Not a chance. My brief moment in the political arena will last me a lifetime. Ken Ewald and Jody Backus. Strange bedfellows, as the saying goes.”

“Incredible more than strange,” Annabel said.

“I suppose so,” said Smith. “I believe Ed Farmer when he says that it was Backus who made the deal with him to buy Ken’s files on DAF, Morales, and Kane. But Ken doesn’t believe it, which is just as well, I suppose.”

“Not if Backus sells him out in some way when he’s the VP.”

“I don’t think that will happen, Annabel. This is politics, not real life. Hell, Germany and Japan tried to kill us in World War Two, and as a reward we’ve helped them kill us economically. No, Backus will be a loyal and useful VP, for whatever that’s worth.”

“Ken Ewald and Jody Backus, our next president and vice-president.”

“Probably.”

“Will we go to the inaugural? I’ll need a new gown.”

“We’ll watch on TV. When it’s over, we’ll become not-so-strange bedfellows, and fool around a little.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Any objections?”

“Only one.”

“What is it?”

“That we not have to wait until January twentieth. I propose we celebrate our own upcoming inaugural the minute
we get back, provided that animal you call a dog will give us the bed.”

“I miss Rufus already.”

She growled. He laughed. And they clinked glasses, settled back, and fell asleep as if on schedule.