Murder at the Watergate (22 page)

The woman worked in the central passenger control center and had informed Montano of the flight Ramon Kelly had taken to Mexico City the night before.

The man had followed Kelly from the airport to the hotel, and called to Montano to tell him where Kelly was staying.

Montano handed each of them an envelope containing money. He then bought a round of drinks: They poured salt on the backs of their hands, bit into lime wedges, licked the salt off, and downed shots of cheap tequila. That was followed by
sangrita
chasers—“little blood”—a cocktail of chilies, tomato, and orange juice.

“Felicidades!”
Montano said, raising his glass.

“Salud!”

“Salud!”

Had the terminal at Mexico City’s airport not been so vast and crowded, Ramon Kelly and Chris Hedras might have bumped into each other.

Kelly had checked out of his hotel the minute he returned and taken a cab directly to the airport, where he booked a seat on the next flight to New York.

Hedras, after a day of meetings, had a car service deliver him to the airport for a flight to León, an hour and a half from San Miguel de Allende, where he was met by Maynard, Elfie Dorrance’s chauffeur.

“Chris, darling,” Elfie said when she greeted him at the front door. She was wearing a flowing, floor-length purple-and-white caftan and had spent the past three hours lolling in a hot tub, and enjoying a facial and massage. “Good trip?”

“All right. You should get them to build an airport here in San Miguel. I hate the ride from León.”

“It can be pretty.”

“Seeing those armed thugs lined up when you come
through the villages is no thing of beauty, Elfie. I could use a drink.”

She watched him head for the party room and the bar, an amused expression on her face. He could be such a petulant child, she thought. But that was part of his youthful appeal. Foul moods in her older male friends were inevitably played out as disagreeable grouchiness.

She followed him into the room, where he poured tequila over ice and took a quick swallow.

“I didn’t think you’d be able to break away,” she said.

“I didn’t either,” he said, finishing the drink, pouring another, and slouching in a cushioned white wicker chair. He’d loosened his tie and undone the top button of his shirt. His hair was tousled; his dark shading of beard and tired eyes generated a look of fashionable dissipation.

“How did your meetings go in Mexico City?” she asked.

“Okay.”

“Who did you meet with?”

It was an admonishing laugh. “Anything else you’d like to know? Who I slept with, maybe?”

She’d been playing along with his surliness. Her taste for it was now gone.

“I suggest you get off your high horse, Chris, and answer my questions.”

Her stern tone wasn’t lost on him. He sat up a little straighter, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and said, “A few of the twelve. We met at Pasado’s house. A palace. It’s in the Polanco district. He’s got—”

“I’ve been at Pasado’s home a number of times, Chris. I don’t need a house tour. Who was there?”

“I told you. Some of the Mexico Twelve.”

“Pour me a drink. Light. Rum and a splash of soda. I’ll ask again. Who specifically was there?”

Elfie knew each member of the so-called Mexico Twelve, a dozen of Mexico’s wealthiest men who’d secretly gathered one night prior to the 1994 elections and had remained a close, closed club ever since.

Before the ’94 elections, there had been growing concern about the ruling PRI’s primary source of money, the government itself. It was time for the private sector to offer more financial support to the party. Each of the twelve men feasting on smoked salmon and steak that Tuesday evening in February 1993 were asked to pay financial tribute to their source of wealth, the PRI and its president. By the time they’d climbed into their limousines to leave, they’d each pledged an average of twenty-five million U.S. dollars—a total of seven hundred and fifty million.

Hedras named four men who’d been at his meeting. “They’re pouring money into the newspapers like never before,” he added, “to make sure the PRI’s news is on the front page. Those reporters are getting rich, too. They rack up the money.”

“Senor Zegreda wasn’t there?”

“Yes, he was. I forgot. We can’t forget him, can we?”

“I would say not. Did you get to see the ambassador while you were in the city?”

Hedras laughed. “The distinguished Russell Cadwell, ambassador to Mexico? I spent an hour with him at the embassy. Nervous as a cat. He knows his cushy life is over if Joe wins.”

“
When
Joe wins. What did you talk about?”

“The elections. Joe’s trip here for the inauguration. His arthritis, his wife’s sciatica. He said he had a nice time at your party.”

“Everyone did. You would have enjoyed it, too, Chris. Viviana was her usual radiant self.”

“She sure brings out a man’s carnal best.”

“Oh? Has she brought out
your
carnal best?”

“On occasion.”

“You’re staying through the elections?”

“Uh-huh. I convinced Joe I could be of more use to him here as an advance man than holed up in DC. He’s cooling his campaign activities for a few weeks, affairs of state getting in the way, I suppose. I could use a shower.”

“By all means. Gina took your bags to your room. You know where it is.”

He stood and stretched travel stiffness out of his body. “What’s for dinner?”

“I thought we’d go out. Sierra Nevada.”

“Great. Do you know what I was thinking about on the flight?”

“What?”

“Their onion soup.”

“I thought you might have been thinking about me.”

“Oh, I was, Elfie. Almost every minute.”

She came to him, placed the back of her hand against his rough cheek, smiled, and said, “I’m glad you’re here, Chris.”

Later, showered and shaved and wearing a red cashmere robe that had been hanging in the closet, Chris Hedras unpacked his luggage. He’d almost finished when the door opened.

Hedras grinned. “You never knock, do you?” he said.

“I don’t have to knock. Doors open for me all by themselves.”

Her arrival hadn’t surprised him. He’d expected it. He was waiting.

The first time they’d made love was a year ago, in Washington, the evening of a party she’d hosted for a former White House press secretary whose book about his experiences had just been published. Elfie had flirted with Hedras all evening; at least he took it as such. He wasn’t looking for sex that night because he’d had plenty of it in the afternoon at his apartment, his partner an old flame from Boston who was visiting Washington. It had been like old times, snorting a line of cocaine and thrashing about in his bed, on the living room floor, later in the shower.

Had it not been the infamous Elfie Dorrance, he would have passed, maybe gotten a phone number for future reference but nothing beyond that. But it
was
Elfie Dorrance, and the contemplation of making love to a woman her age exerted a strange and compelling pull on him. He’d heard all the rumors—well, maybe not
all
of them—that she was a woman whose sexual appetite and prowess had made not only four husbands happy, but a variety of other men as well.

It happened as though it had been scripted, and the two of them were acting out parts in a pantomime. He’d intended to leave and had already retrieved his coat from the hallway. But the way she looked at him said he was to stay. And he did. When the last guests had left, she took his hand without a word, led him up a wide, carpeted
staircase, down a hall, and into her bedroom, illuminated by two small table lamps next to the king-size bed.

“I think this is where we’re supposed to be,” she said into his ear, running her hands down his shirtfront. There was something surrealistic about the scene for Hedras, and powerful. Everything seemed to be magnified: the smell of her, the sensuality of her voice, the ritual of achieving nakedness and her incredible smoothness. He was almost a nonparticipant as she guided him through the motions that led to her pleasure.

Was he expected to stay the night? he wondered when they were finished, and she’d retreated to the bathroom. She answered the question when she returned: “Having you spend the night would be a delight,” she said, “but I’m afraid it won’t do.”

She kissed his cheek at the front door and wished him a pleasant evening.

Now, in San Miguel, she closed the door, slipped out of her purple velvet slippers, and came to him barefoot. His boyish grin had returned; her smile was less innocent. She raised her lips to him, which he met eagerly with his own. Her hands undid the sash of his robe. She slipped it off his shoulders, leaving him naked and aroused. Elfie stepped back to allow room to strip off her caftan. Now she, too, was naked. “You’re very beautiful,” he said as they walked hand in hand to the bed.

“Thank you,” she said. “So are you. Two beautiful people doing what beautiful people should be doing. And not another thought about onion soup, Chris. That would disappoint me—and you wouldn’t want to do that, would you?”

For Mac and Annabel, deciding where to go for dinner usually involved a choice between sticking to tried-and-true favorite spots where they were regulars, or sampling any one of the new restaurants opening every week in the nation’s capital. Washington’s reputation as a city of great monuments and bad restaurants was no longer deserved, thanks primarily to the influx of ethnic populations and interesting food. The gastronomic bar had been raised considerably.

This night, they opted to try something different, Cafe Atlantico, near the MCI Center. Friends who’d recently visited it came back raving about what they called its “
nuevo
Latino” menu.

“
Nuevo
Latino?” Mac said on their way to the restaurant on Eighth Street, at the edge of the city’s small but vibrant Chinatown. “I distrust any restaurant with ‘new’ food.”

“Peter and Waldine say the bar serves
mojitos
. And
they recommend the house special for dinner, quail stuffed with wild mushrooms.”

“
Mojitos
, huh? The original Havana recipe? Maybe Papa Hemingway will be there.”

“Or Elvis.”

They declined seats in the third-floor cigar smokers’ dining room, settled in the smoke-free section to enjoy their tangy lime
mojitos
with an appetizer of spicy patties of ground chicken on polenta canapés, in a cooling fresh mango sauce.

“To Papa,” Annabel said, raising her glass.

“I think I saw him at the bar as we came through.
Salud!
”

“So, what’s the latest on the trip?” she asked.

“Originally, we were scheduled to leave in five days. But since our friend the VP wants me to go early, I thought I’d book something four days from now. That okay with you?”

“Would it matter if it wasn’t?”

“Do I detect a hint of pique?” Mac asked.

“No, you do not. I just meant that when your vice president sends you on a special mission, it takes precedence.”

“Just as long as you understand, Annie.”

“Oh, I do. Besides, I have wonderful news.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I got a call today from that dealer in San Miguel I’ve bought things from before. Hector?”

“Sure. That baked-clay head—where was it from, Chiapas?—was stunning.”

“One of my favorite pieces. I think I may have it sold. Anyway, Hector called to say he’s come upon two
magnificent Mayan vases, one carved in human form. He’s giving me first look.”

“That’s wonderful, Annie. And you know you can trust him, unlike a few other so-called dealers in your business.”

“The point is, Mac, I think I’ll leave a few days early, too.”

“But you have that seminar at Catholic University.”

“I called Susan to check on flights. She can get me on a late one the night of the seminar from Dulles to Dallas. I’ll have just enough time to make a connection to León through Mexico City.”

“Sounds good. But why the rush?”

“I don’t want to miss out on seeing what Hector is offering. Besides, that would give us an extra day or two together.”

“But I’ll be in Mexico City through the elections.”

“I know. I’ll go straight to San Miguel, examine the vases, make a decision, and head right back to Mexico City. Being there with you during the elections will be exciting.”

“Sounds good to me. Shall we order?”

They arrived back at the Watergate a little before eleven.

“Nightcap?” Mac asked.

“In the hotel?”

“Yes. We can celebrity watch.”

The Potomac Lounge was packed. Every table was taken, and a large group gathered around the grand piano, where a pianist hidden by the crowd belted out a rollicking blues tune. Annabel peeked over some shoulders, turned to Mac, and said, “It’s Stevie Wonder.”

“He must be appearing in town,” Mac said.

“At the Kennedy Center. I read about it.”

Mac spotted a couple getting up from a small table closer to the bar and guided Annabel to it.

“That’s Stevie Wonder,” the waitress said when she came for their drink order.

“I know,” said Annabel. “Just an impromptu performance?”

“Yes,” the waitress said, unable to contain the excitement in her voice. “He did the same thing last year when he was in town. Played till four in the morning.”

Mac checked his watch.

Annabel laughed and took his hand. “We won’t stay that long. Just this one drink.”

An hour later Mac paid the check and they prepared to leave. Stevie Wonder was still performing; the crowd hadn’t thinned.

“Ready?” Mac asked.

He’d no sooner stood and was pulling out Annabel’s chair when he saw a familiar face approaching.

“Mac,” Jim Ferguson said.

“Hello,” Smith said. “Enjoying the music?”

“Just got here. Frankly, I was looking for you.”

“Oh? This is my wife, Annabel. Annabel, Jim Ferguson.”

“Hello.”