Murder at the Watergate (19 page)

“He said he’s working with Joe.”

“A new addition to the campaign staff, I guess. I’ll call him when I’m dressed. What time is your girls’ morning out?”

“Ugh! Why is it that when men get together, it’s a meeting? When women get together, it’s a so-called girls’ night out? Or in this case, a morning.”

“Just a slip of the sexist tongue, Annie. When are you, Carole, and Rosalie
meeting
?”

“Ten. At Carole’s house. I admire her for trying to find time for a normal life outside being second lady.”

“I always admired Gene McCarthy for suggesting on national television that a president take a day off every week to read poetry, or listen to music.”

“Didn’t exactly go over with the voters.”

“Ah, what do they know?”

Mac dressed for the day while Annabel was taking her turn in the shower. Then he returned Jim Ferguson’s call.

“Mr. Ferguson, Mackensie Smith.”

“Yes, Mr. Smith. I’m doing some work for the vice president. He told me that you’ll be traveling to Mexico in a few days and wanted me to catch up with you before you leave.”

“I see.”

“The vice president felt I could offer a few things to make your trip go more smoothly. Sort of a last-minute briefing.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Would you have an hour today? Later this morning?”

“I have a tentative lunch date. How about eleven?”

“That’ll be fine.”

“Where?”

“State Department Building? Only a few minutes’ walk from the Watergate.”

“Yes, it is. I’ll ask for you?”

“Yes. Appreciate the time, sir.”

A military type, Smith decided.

When Annabel came from the bedroom, Mac was about to walk Rufus. He told her of the meeting he’d scheduled with Ferguson.

“So, who is he?” she asked.

“He never did say, but we’re meeting at State.”

“Maybe he wants to offer you an ambassadorship.”

“I’ll take it, provided it’s to a place with a moderate climate. You’d better get going. Carole is as punctual as Joe.”

“I know.” They kissed. “Enjoy your meeting. What’s for dinner?”

“Out. I’ve been a slave to the kitchen lately.”

Another kiss and she was gone.

Before walking the dog, Mac placed a call to Joe Aprile’s campaign headquarters in the 600 building. One of the VP’s senior advisors came on the line.

“Sid, Mac Smith. Just a quick question. I’m meeting this morning with a gentleman named Jim Ferguson. He says he’s working on the campaign. I haven’t met him before.”

“Good man, Mac. Navy, retired, worked in intelligence. He’s advising us on intelligence matters.”

“Oh. Just wanted to know who I’m meeting with. Thanks for the info.”

Mac decided to take the Dane on an extended walk that morning. He circumvented the 600 Office Building, pausing to take in the Kennedy Center and Saudi embassy across the street, stopped to chat with a friend who’d just taken out coffee from Cup-A-Cup, then headed down Virginia Avenue to where it intersected with Rock Creek and Potomac Parkway. It took him a few minutes to navigate the heavy traffic to safely reach the perimeter of the park. Rufus found a sign
—THOMPSON BOAT CENTER
—to be of olfactory interest, added his own signature to it, and they proceeded in the direction of the boat center. They’d almost reached it when Mac heard his name called. He turned to see Jiggs Machlin, chief of staff to Wisconsin Democratic Congressman Philip Broadbent, jogging his way.

“They let you out for a run?” Mac asked. “I thought Congress was in session.”

“We get an hour for lunch, an hour for exercise, and an hour for sleep,” Machlin said. “I’m into my run hour. How’ve you been, Mac?”

“Just fine. You?”

“I’d be a hell of a lot better if Curtain would get off his crusade to nail the president over the eternal matter of campaign finances.”

“I saw your boss discussing it on CNN not long ago. Is Curtain going ahead with hearings?”

“Yup. He’s got the votes. Phil’s tried everything short of threatening to cancel his parking space. You know Curtain. I swear the man tortured little furry animals when he was a kid.”

“He’d better not try it with
this
furry animal,” Smith said, patting Rufus’s head. “When’s it about to pop?”

“No idea. Curtain says that unlike previous fund-raising investigations, he’s got the smoking gun this time.”

“Any idea what it is?”

“No. Typical Curtain tactic. Get the public convinced there’s something real to nail the president with, keep it going as long as you can, then let it fade away. How’s things with Joe Aprile?”

“Okay, I suppose.”

“You know, Mac, if Curtain and the committee does have something tangible on the president, Joe will take the hit just as hard.”

“I know.”

“Funny, but I went along with Clinton and Scott on our Mexico policy. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Always two ways to look at anything, Jiggs. Well, I won’t hold you up. You’re running out of run time.”

“Yeah. Give a call one of these days. We’ll grab some lunch.”

“Love it. Soon as I get back.”

“Where you going?”

“Mexico.”

“That’s right. The elections. You’re on the observer team.” He patted Rufus. “Does he take you out for walks often, Mac?”

“When he’s in the mood, Jiggs, and when I let him know I have to go.”

Mission accomplished, Mac and Rufus headed back to the Watergate. As they waited to cross the intersection, Smith saw the man who’d been rude when Mac had held the elevator door for him. He wore a black leather jacket and jeans, and was leaning against a tree. He’d been looking at Mac and Rufus. When he saw that Smith noticed him, he slowly pushed away from the tree and walked in the direction of the boat center.

Mac returned to the apartment, paid a few bills, and set off for his eleven o’clock appointment.

Annabel, Carole Aprile, and Rosalie Brown met in the vice president’s official residence, the Admiral’s House, on the grounds of the Naval Observatory on upper Massachusetts Avenue. A curious place, she thought for the umpteenth time. It had been built in 1893 as a home for the observatory’s superintendent. In 1928, the superintendent was asked to leave and the house became home for various chiefs of naval operations. In 1974, Congress decided the vice president of the United States deserved an official residence and designated the Admiral’s House, a comfortable home of Victorian architecture, with a
turret, a few dormers, and a turn-of-the-century porch that wrapped around three sides.

Rosalie, a congenitally good-natured woman, was first to leave the reunion, having to join her husband, George, at a social event connected with the convention he was attending.

“She’s amazing,” Carole said when she and Annabel were alone in the kitchen and fresh cups of coffee had been poured. “As bouncy and exuberant as she was in school.”

“It’s those southern genes,” Annabel offered. “I’m glad to see George doing so well.”

“Even if he is a rock-ribbed Republican. They’re fun. We’ve got to find more time to spend together. Maybe when—”

Annabel laughed. “If you’re about to say that you’ll have more time when Joe is out of office, forget it. He’ll be our next president—for eight years.
Then
you’ll have time.”

“I know. I wish. I don’t wish.”

Annabel sat back and observed. While Carole had been upbeat during the previous hour, Annabel sensed it had taken some effort. Now, Carole’s brow furrowed, and her bright green eyes dimmed.

“Want to tell me?” Annabel said.

“Tell you what?”

“What’s on your mind. I’m not a mind reader but I’m pretty good on faces, starting with the pre-Columbian.”

Carole smiled, nodded, placed her elbows on the table, and cupped her chin in her hands. “I feel pre-Columbian. Do you ever worry about your marriage, Annabel?”

“In what way? I had a nightmare last night that Mac was abducted—or something—and was gone forever.”

“Scary.”

“Very. But I suspect you don’t mean nightmares.”

“No. Do you ever worry about other women?”

“And Mac? No.”

“Never?”

“Never say never, huh? Sure. Mac is a handsome man, among other things. He turns heads on occasion, and I sometimes wonder—just for a second or so—whether he’s noticed and might be interested in an admirer. But I never question whether he’s faithful.”

“Lusting in his heart, maybe, like Jimmy Carter?”

“A fantasy now and then? Of course.”

Annabel waited for Carole to speak. When she didn’t, she asked, “Are you concerned about Joe?”

Carole pursed her lips, closed her eyes for a moment, and said, “Yes.”

“Why? Has something happened?”

“Do you mean have I walked in on Joe and another woman? No. I have no tangible evidence that Joe is being unfaithful, just this nagging, painful feeling that he might be.”

“I’m listening, Carole. And you don’t have to go any further. But I’m here, always will be for you and Joe.”

Carole placed her hand on Annabel’s. “I know. Thanks. Sometimes I feel so isolated in this house, the Secret Service always looming, Joe traveling all the time, the kids away at school. I don’t think I was cut out for this life.”

“I’d say you were perfectly cut out for it, Carole. You’ll be one of the country’s best first ladies.”

“Annabel, ever since Joe made that series of trips to Mexico—remember, six or eight months ago?—he’s changed. He’s become distant, preoccupied.”

“Wait a minute, Carole. If I were vice president of the United States and was poised to run for the presidency, I think I’d be preoccupied, too.”

“This is different.”

“How so?”

“It’s a personal detachment, Annabel. Between us, man and wife. Woman’s intuition? Chalk it up to that. I just know something’s changed with him that goes beyond the office and his ambitions.”

“Have you spoken with him about it?”

“I’ve tried. Joe is the most level-headed, even-keeled person I know.”

“Not bad credentials for a president.”

“But when I have tried to broach the subject, he shuts down. It’s not like him. We’ve always had an open marriage—not the sixties’ version—the lines of communication have always been open, no matter what the subject.”

Annabel took her empty cup to the sink, turned, and leaned against the counter. “Is there a specific woman?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“Which might be a good thing.”

“She’s an actress.”

“Oh?”

“Viviana Diaz.”

“I don’t think—oh, the
Mexican
actress. I’ve never seen any of her pictures. All I know about her is from the tabloids. There was some scandal where a wife—killed herself?—over her husband’s affair with her?”

“That’s right. She’s a very beautiful woman.”

“Yes, if the pictures haven’t been retouched.” Annabel sat at the table again. “Okay, let me get this straight. You think Joe might be involved?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Remember, I’m a lawyer. Every question is followed by another question. Why do you think that?”

Carole took a deep breath. “Joe came back from one of his trips to Mexico talking about her. That was fine. He met many Mexican celebrities, political leaders, big honchos. But then he went
back
; the president had him almost commuting there for a while. The drug thing and all that. He returned from that second trip a different person. That’s when the change started, Annabel. And there are the pictures.”

Pictures?

For the first time since Carole had raised the subject, Annabel wondered whether there might be something to her friend’s fears.

“What sort of pictures?”

Carole read the dismay on Annabel’s face. “Not those kind of pictures, Annabel.”

“What kind, then?”

“Of Joe and Viviana Diaz together. Parties, receptions. He brought a ton of them back with him from one of the trips, emptied them from his briefcase one evening. He didn’t show them to me. They were in a pile of things on his desk. I saw one sticking out and looked. She seemed to be wherever he went in Mexico. There was even a shot of just the two of them on a balcony.”

“But there are always pictures when the vice president travels.”

“I know that. And all but that one picture include many people, political bigwigs, businessmen, embassy types, security men. But damn it, Annabel, there’s a look on his face—on her face, too—that says to me they are happy to be together, that they’re involved in some way beyond photo ops.”

“Could I see them?”

“I don’t have them. They were gone from Joe’s desk the next morning. I suppose they’re at his office. I haven’t asked.”

“Look,” Annabel said, “I don’t want to question your ability to read your husband’s face in photos, Carole, but you might be reading things into it that are—well, wrong.”

“Paranoid, you mean?”

“I wouldn’t use the word, but yes, seeing things that aren’t there. I suppose it’s natural after being married a long time to wonder whether things are the same, whether too many opportunities are presenting themselves to the other spouse.”

“You may be right, Annabel. I’d certainly prefer to think that way. My head tells me that’s the case. My heart says something else.”

“Trust your head,” Annabel said, not sure it represented her true feelings, but it seemed the right thing to say. In truth, there was no reason to summarily dismiss Carole’s fears. But in a world of philanderers, there were certain men who simply did not fit that mold. Joe Aprile was one of them. So was Mac. For Annabel, they lived by a set of standards a cut above those men who easily fell prey to what seemed, at times, a legion of predatory women out there enticing them.

Still …

“I feel like I’m one of those women spilling over on an afternoon TV talk show.”

“What do you want me to do, Carole?”

“Do? Nothing. You’ve already done, sitting here listening to me. And I’m embarrassed to have gone on like this. How about you, Annabel? That nightmare sounded dreadful.”

“It was. I suppose it has to do with Mac’s trip to Mexico.”

“You’re going together.”

“No, we’re not. Not at first. He’s going …”

Should she mention Mac’s trip on Joe Aprile’s behalf? Carole obviously didn’t know.