The stately two-story redbrick Ewald home was on the upper reaches of Twenty-eighth Street in Georgetown; behind it, Oak Hill Cemetery. The house sat on a rise of land, giving its occupants a view of the Dumbarton Oaks mansion and gardens.
Smith pulled up in his blue Chevy Caprice and told one of two uniformed security guards that he was expected. The guard used an intercom to confirm it, and pushed a button that caused black iron gates to open electronically. Smith pulled into the circular driveway and was about to knock on the front door when Leslie Ewald opened it.
“Hello, Leslie.”
“Hello, Mac.” She looked past him to the front gate. Smith observed her closely. The flesh around her eyes was spongy, like putty that has been rubbed with a thumb covered with pencil lead. Lines he hadn’t noticed earlier in the evening seemed suddenly to have exploded at the corners of her mouth. She bit her lip, realized he was looking at her—realized he was there. “I’m sorry, Mac, please forgive me. I hate having to …”
She looked at the gate again. Smith, too, looked.
“We’ve always had one guard. Now, there are two. Ed Farmer had the extra sent over as soon as we told him about Ms. Feldman. They’re going to install an electrified fence around the property—like one of those things that fries bugs.” She looked up at the portico roof. “Cameras, too. God, how I hate it all!”
“Beefing up security might be wise,” Smith said, “considering Andrea Feldman was a close working member of the staff. The media people and others will be all over you when it comes out.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“Let’s go inside,” Smith said.
She ignored him and pointed to her left. Parked on the road at the corner of the property was a small white car.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“Press. They were at police headquarters. I suppose we’ll end up being surrounded.”
As she entered the foyer, she started to cry. Smith followed and shut the door behind them. She looked at him with round, moist eyes that were spilling tears down her cheeks. Her body heaved, and she threw herself against him. He wrapped his big arms about her thin shoulders and held her for a time, saying softly, “Easy, easy. It’s terrible that Andrea Feldman has died but …”
“You don’t understand, Mac.”
“I assume I will quickly.”
“Yes, very quickly.” She regained her composure, even forced a smile. “I haven’t fallen apart in years.” She took his hand. “Come, Ken and Ed Farmer are in the study.”
As she opened the door, Farmer came through it, followed closely by Ewald. “Mac, good to see you, thanks for being here,” Ewald said, putting his hand on Smith’s shoulder. “Back in a minute.”
Leslie looked as if she might cry again, so Smith asked if he could have a drink before the coffee. “It’s been hours since the party.” He really didn’t want one, but his strategy worked. She now had something to do. She quickly departed, leaving him alone in the paneled room.
He’d been there before on dozens of occasions, yet for reasons he couldn’t identify, it was strangely new to him at this moment.
Two walls were taken up with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. A third wall contained cases with glass doors that housed Ewald’s extensive collection of antique guns—a strange hobby, Smith often thought, for someone perpetually at war with the NRA. “They’re beautiful to look at, and they have great historic meaning. Shooting them is another matter,” Ewald always said when questioned about it. Smith had always found Ewald somewhat enigmatic—predictable in a few unappealing ways, persuasively attractive in others. A human being.
Leslie returned carrying a scotch on the rocks for him, a balloon glass containing a dark liquid for her, partly consumed. “Did I get it right, Mac, scotch?”
“Yes, might as well stay with it. What are you drinking?” To keep her talking.
“Brandy and port. When Ken and I were in Scotland a few years ago, we took a particularly rough boat trip to the Orkney Islands. My stomach was queasy, and I asked the bartender for some blackberry brandy. He insisted a combination of port and brandy was more effective. He was right. I’ve felt like throwing up ever since we got your phone call, but this settled my stomach right down.”
When they were seated on adjoining flowered love seats around a leather-topped coffee table, Smith said, “Okay, tell me about it. Don’t mince words, just be direct. I know the death of anyone we know is terribly upsetting, but I’m reading into this something beyond that. Am I right?”
“Yes, you are very right.”
“What am I right about?”
“I don’t know where to begin. I suppose I should just tell you that—”
Ewald and Farmer returned. Ewald pulled a red morocco leather chair on casters up to the table, settled his long, lean body in it, and crossed one leg over the other, the casualness of the pose in stark contrast to the tension-stiffened body of his wife. Farmer stood by a window behind Smith.
“Leslie was just starting to tell me about a particular concern you have with Andrea’s death.”
Ewald said to his wife, “Go ahead, might as well continue.” Smith couldn’t decide whether Ewald was angry at Leslie or feeling an anxiety that his outward appearance didn’t reflect.
Leslie shook her head and looked down at her drink.
“All right, I’ll pick it up from there,” Ewald said. “Evidently, Andrea was murdered with a weapon that belongs to me.”
The expulsion of air through Smith’s lips was involuntary—and necessary. He sat back and listened to Ewald’s further explanation.
“I’ve had a registered handgun in the house for years. Leslie had been expressing concern about the amount of time I’m away, and I thought simply having it on the premises would be comforting to her.” He looked at Leslie; she continued to stare down into her port and brandy.
“It was a small stainless-steel Derringer, a three-inch .45 Colt. It’s been sitting in a drawer in the bedroom for God knows how long. At any rate, after you called with the news about Andrea, I opened the drawer. Don’t ask me why, but I did. The gun is gone.”
“Who had access to it besides you and Leslie?” Smith asked.
Ewald looked once again at his wife. “Everyone in the house,” she said.
“Family?” Smith asked.
“Yes, family, visitors, household staff, campaign staff. A cast of thousands.”
Smith thought for a moment before asking, “Is that what’s concerning you so? Or do you think that someone in this household is going to be accused of her murder?”
Ewald didn’t reply, but Leslie did, in a low, flat voice. “Yes.”
“Someone from your staff, Ken?”
“No,” Ewald said, looking at Leslie for the first time as if to receive approval of what he was about to say next. She was without expression. He said, “We feel there is the possibility that Paul will be charged with the murder.”
“Why do you say that?” Smith asked.
“Because …”
Leslie Ewald finished the sentence. “Because Paul was having an affair with her.” Smith started to speak, but Leslie forged on. “Paul was having an affair with Andrea Feldman, and last night he did not return home.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. We talked to Janet.”
Smith was processing what she’d said. Both things pointed at Paul Ewald as a suspect, but they were hardly conclusive. Smith added a third element; Paul obviously had access to his father’s pistols.
Smith realized Ed Farmer was still standing by the window. He’d forgotten Farmer was in the room. He turned and looked at the campaign manager, then asked Ken and Leslie whether there was any other information.
“Janet knew about Paul’s affair with Andrea,” Leslie said. “It caused a tremendous rift in the marriage, naturally, and I know Janet had issued an ultimatum to Paul.”
Farmer started to leave the room. “Drink, anyone?” he asked.
Smith and Ken Ewald passed, but Leslie asked him to refill her glass. When Farmer was gone, Smith said, “Have you called me here as a family friend, as a lawyer, or for my reaction to this in terms of your campaign?”
“All of that, but especially number two, Mac,” Ewald said. “If Paul is charged, we want you to defend him.” Leslie sat up straight, closed her eyes tight, and started to cry convulsively.
Ewald moved to her side and put his arm around her. “Take it easy, honey; chances are Paul’s not going to be charged with anything. Mac, we just need your advice.”
“I think I ought to say something right now,” Smith cautioned. They both looked at him. “I’ve been a quasi-legal adviser to this family on a very informal level, and I used to be a practicing attorney. I am now a contented college professor, teaching law at a major university. I’m sorry, but I could not take on Paul’s legal defense.”
“We know how you feel, Mac, but if we’ve ever asked a favor of you, this is it. Please, at least consider it.”
“Of course I’ll consider it. But you have to know where I am. And I just got there in recent years. Look, I want to make a few informal phone calls, maybe pick up some information that will be helpful to you whether or not I have anything more to do with this officially. You know I’ll help if I can. I’ll get back to you later this morning.”
They walked him to the door. As he shook Ken’s hand and kissed Leslie on the cheek, he found himself gripped with a sense of pathos and concern. Obviously, the three of them knew that if Paul was charged with the murder, not only would it be a tragic personal experience, it could have a severe impact on Ken Ewald’s drive for the White House. And though it seemed unthinkable, a conviction could end that drive. As far as Mac Smith was concerned—despite some reservations about Ewald—that would not be good for the country. He chewed on that thought as he drove back to his home in Foggy Bottom.