Mac Smith had always been an early riser, although he was capable of sleeping in provided it had been scheduled in advance. Sleeping late had not been planned for this morning, and he awoke precisely at six o’clock to the smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen. To say that Mackensie Smith was obsessive and compulsive about certain ablutions and details was an understatement. No matter what time he returned home at night, he would have trouble falling asleep until he’d prepared the morning coffee and set the timer. Preparing the coffee was a satisfying, relaxing ritual in itself; three scoops of a commercial decaffeinated coffee, two scoops of a water-decaffeinated amaretto blend, and two scoops of amaretto bursting with caffeine. Enough for ten cups; somehow Thursday might turn out to be a long day.
Rufus, the Dane, his nose a finely tuned instrument to most smells, wasn’t stimulated by the aroma of coffee. He looked up from where he was sleeping on the floor and observed his master climb out of bed, stretch, yawn, and head for the kitchen. The minute Smith was gone, Rufus climbed up onto the bed and resumed sleeping.
Smith continued his morning ceremonies in the kitchen. He opened windows, turned on WRC, poured his first cup of coffee, then funneled the rest into a carafe so that it would not continue to percolate. WRC’s weatherman was in the midst of forecasting a sunny, pleasant day when Smith turned on the station. A minute later, the weatherman turned things over to the anchor, who said, “To repeat our top stories, Paul Ewald, the son of Democratic presidential hopeful Kenneth Ewald, was arrested just hours ago for the murder of Andrea Feldman, a young attorney who worked on Senator Ewald’s staff. We’ll bring you more details as we receive them.…
“The White House has once again avowed its support of rebel forces in Panama loyal to ousted dictator Gilbert Morales.…
“A large shipment of cocaine has been intercepted by DEA agents at Dulles Airport.…”
Smith called the Ewalds’ home. His call was answered by Marcia Mims, whose voice reflected her distress. “No, Mr. Smith, I haven’t heard from either Senator or Mrs. Ewald. This is so terrible, so terrible for this family. Oh, my God, Mr. Smith, please do something to help!”
“I’ll do everything I can, Marcia,” Smith said. “I’ll be at my house for an hour. If I don’t hear from someone by then, I’ll call again.”
His next call was to Paul Ewald’s place. There was no answer, which didn’t surprise him. Janet Ewald was missing, and Paul was in custody. He was hoping—silly game. But you had to try everything, ring every bell, turn over every lead and leaf.
Call number three was to MPD headquarters. He was told Detective Riga wouldn’t be back until nine.
“This is Mackensie Smith,” he said, and added, “Paul Ewald’s attorney. Where is he being held?”
The desk sergeant told him. Smith thanked him and hung up.
He was about to pick up the phone again when it rang. “Hello?”
“Mac, this is Rhonda.”
“I just heard on your station about Paul being arrested,” Smith said. He sounded gruff, although he had no reason to be annoyed with her. Somehow, getting the news from a radio station rankled, and he couldn’t keep it out of his voice.
“Were you called?” she asked.
“No. I’m about to get dressed to go see him.”
“You haven’t had any conversation with him yet?”
“No. As I said, Rhonda, I heard the news over your station.”
“Mac, you say you’re going to see him. You are his attorney?”
“Getting dressed and going to see the son of an old friend does not indicate anything, Rhonda. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Have you talked to Senator Ewald yet?”
“Rhonda, let’s drop this. If I am to be Paul Ewald’s attorney, that places me under obvious restrictions where you’re concerned.”
“I understand that, but it doesn’t mean I can’t stay in touch with you, keep tabs on things through you. We are friends, aren’t we?”
“At parties, yes, but our friendship now has some rules.”
She laughed. “Sure, it had a few before. But the rules don’t preclude me from calling you, or you from answering the phone. Keep in touch, Mac.”
“Sure. Do me the same favor.”
Showered and dressed, and with Rufus hurriedly walked and fed, Smith was almost out the door when he remembered: He had an early class to teach at the university. He called Dean Gerry at home. “Roger, I can’t make my class this morning. I want to call Art Poly to see if he’ll cover it for me.”
Gerry laughed. “You can cancel it if you want to, Mac.”
“No, Roger, they miss enough even when they’re there.”
“All right, call Art, but I have a feeling I’ll be getting more calls like this from you.”
“I think you’re right,” Smith said.
“Look, Mac, I heard the news this morning about Paul Ewald being arrested. I also assume that you’re about to handle his defense.”
Smith’s laugh was rueful.
“Is it true?”
“Probably. I mean, yes, it is. We’d better get together to talk about how to handle this.”
“Anytime, Mac. I’m having a few friends over Saturday evening. Perhaps you and Annabel would join us. We can huddle for whatever time you need.”
Smith sighed and thought ahead to Saturday. It seemed years away. “I’ll ask Annabel as soon as I talk to her. I don’t know what my schedule is going to be once I’m in deep in this. If I can’t make it Saturday, maybe we can steal some time at the office. I’ll let you know.”
“Whatever works for you, Mac. Interesting, that you’d get involved in something like this. How well I remember our discussion when you told me you’d decided to close down your practice and join us here in academia.”
“I remember that discussion, too. Thanks for understanding about this morning. I’ll try to be there Saturday.”
Smith opened the front door to leave and was confronted with a half-dozen reporters and photographers who’d congregated on the sidewalk in front of his house. A television remote truck was parked across the street. Smith wasn’t sure what to do. His options were to remain inside, give them a statement, or simply walk past without saying anything. The last option seemed the only sensible course, and that’s what he did, waving off their questions, saying only to the most persistent, “No comment.”
He decided to leave his car in his garage and to walk until he found a cab. The reporters trailed him, but only one continued to match him stride for stride as he put blocks between him and the house. It was a young man carrying a Marantz portable tape recorder and a microphone with the call letters of a station Smith did not know. The young man eventually stopped asking questions and simply continued walking a few paces behind Smith. They reached an intersection where the light was against them. Smith turned and said as pleasantly as possible, “I don’t have any comment at this time.”
The young man, whose hair was blushing and whose face sported the predictable accompanying freckles, grinned and said, “All I’m asking, Mr. Smith, is whether you’re Paul Ewald’s attorney. There shouldn’t be any mystery about that.”
Smith sighed and nodded. “No, there is no mystery about that. Yes, I am representing Paul Ewald in this matter.”
The light changed. They looked at each other. Smith narrowed his eyes and said, “You can follow me to Chesapeake Bay, but you won’t hear another word.”
“Okay,” the young red-haired reporter said. “Thanks for answering at least one question.”
A few blocks later, Smith found a taxi and had the driver take him to MPD headquarters at Third and C Streets, where, after navigating a maze of members of the press and squinting against flashes from strobe lights, he reached Detective Joe Riga’s office. Riga was seated behind his desk, a telephone wedged between ear and shoulder. He was partly obscured by piles of paper and file folders. He saw Smith at the door, waved him in, and resumed his conversation.
Smith went to a window that desperately needed cleaning and looked down to the street. He heard Riga say, “I don’t give a goddamn what he wants, the report isn’t leaving this office until I get the word from my authorities. Look, I … evidently you don’t speak English.” He slammed the phone down.
Smith leaned against the windowsill and said, “Good morning, Joe. Still in the State Department? You just flunked diplomacy. You sound angry.”
Riga picked up a half-smoked cigar and wedged the soggy end between his teeth. “Yeah, I’m angry at all the wahoos who try to pull rank with me, and I have a feeling you’re not here to make me any happier. You’re officially Ewald’s attorney?”
“Yes.”
Riga cackled and put the cigar in the ashtray. “Jesus, Mac, I never figured I’d see you back in the saddle as a criminal attorney.” Smith started to say something, but Riga continued. “You know something, you should’ve stayed at the university. Do you know what you’re walking into?”
“Probably not, but that doesn’t matter at the moment. You’ve arrested Paul Ewald. Is he charged with Andrea Feldman’s murder?”
“Mac, get your facts straight. We haven’t arrested Paul Ewald. We brought him in for questioning.”
“In the middle of the night.”
“Yeah. People tend to be home then.”
“You didn’t have to detain him to question him, Joe.”
“In this case, I figured it might be a good idea.” Riga shrugged, grimaced, picked up his cigar again. “His wife cuts out, which makes me a little uneasy, you know? I feel better having him cozied up here.”
“I don’t give a damn what you feel better with, Joe. You have no right to detain him unless you’re ready to charge and indict him.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, but you know I’ve got a little time.”
“Damn little. Why wasn’t I called immediately?” Smith asked.
“We told him he had a quarter to call his attorney, but he didn’t. Maybe he doesn’t want you.”
“I don’t think that’s the case, Joe. His rights were read to him, I assume.”
Riga laughed. “Yeah, we read him his rights. We read them a couple of times, because of who he is.”
“With the video running.”
“Yeah. We made sure we shot his best side.”
“Did he make any statements?”
“Just that he didn’t kill her.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing important. They all sound the same when you pick them up and question them about a murder. They go through their shocked routine, then get angry at the outrage of it all, and then they clam up. He followed the pattern. You wanna see him?”
“Of course. Before I do, though, let me ask you a question.”
“Shoot.” The phone rang and Riga picked it up, scowled at what he heard, and hung up.
“Joe, doesn’t it strike you as a little strange that the son of a prominent senator and presidential candidate sleeps with a member of his father’s staff, then chooses to shoot her, of all places, in front of the Kennedy Center and with a weapon that belongs to his father?”
Another shrug from the detective. “Maybe twenty years ago. Nothing surprises me in this looney-tune society.”
Smith pushed away from the windowsill and took a chair across the desk. “There still has to be some question in your mind about the probability of all this. Paul Ewald isn’t a nut by any stretch of the imagination. He’s well educated, has a successful import-export business, and has never been in trouble in his life.”
“Come on, Mac, what the hell does that mean? What we’ve got here is a guy who’s been importing and exporting with some chick with a body and brains. He’s cheating on his old lady. The broad threatens to bust up his marriage, which, because he happens to be the son of maybe our next president, could screw up his father, too. He tells her to back off. She won’t back off. He pulls out the gun and figures that’ll get her attention, get her to listen. She doesn’t. Boom! Another crime of passion, just like in the good old-fashioned murder mysteries. Nothing new. The strength of a single pubic hair is stronger than ten thousand mules.”
Riga laughed at his own joke. “I think Freud said that,” he said.
Smith realized he was wasting time trying to get Riga to at least acknowledge some doubt about Paul Ewald’s guilt. “Yes,” he said, “Willie Freud from Anacostia.” The phone rang again, and Riga picked it up. Smith stood and pointedly looked at his watch. Riga put his hand over the mouthpiece and said, “All right, I’ll get somebody to take you down.” He pushed a button on his intercom: “Send Ormsby in here.” Riga went back to his telephone conversation. A sergeant entered the office. Again cupping a hand over the mouthpiece, Riga told him, “This is Mackensie Smith, Paul Ewald’s lawyer. Take him down to see his client.”
Twenty minutes later, Smith sat with Paul Ewald in a room reserved for lawyer-client meetings. It was furnished in pure postmodern police station: a long wooden table and four wooden chairs without arms. At least all four legs on the chairs were the same length. In the interrogation rooms, a half inch of the front legs was sawed off to keep suspects constantly leaning forward. A bright bulb covered by a green metal shade hung above the table. Heavy wire mesh covered the windows, as well as a small window in the door. A uniformed officer could be seen through the window.
Smith and Ewald shook hands. “Thanks for coming, Mac,” Ewald said.
“Sorry you’re going through this, Paul. You won’t have to much longer.” They sat at the table, Smith at the head of it, Ewald to his left.
“Let me say a few things at the outset, Paul. I don’t know what evidence the district attorney thinks he has to make a case against you, but I’ll be informed of that in short order, if he does decide to proceed with charges. I know that you didn’t come home that night after the show at the Kennedy Center. I know that you had access to the weapon that killed Andrea Feldman. And I know that you’d been having an affair with her. If that’s all the DA is going on, he won’t dare seek an indictment. I can assure you of that.”
Ewald drew a deep breath, sat back, and looked up at the ceiling. His eyes were closed, and he pressed his lips tightly together. Smith took the moment to observe him. Paul Ewald was a presentable young man. Smith thought of the actors Van Johnson and Martin Milner. Paul had the same boyish quality as his father, although there was a subtle ruggedness to his father’s face that Paul did not possess. In fact, Smith had often thought that there was a softness in Paul Ewald that was almost androgynous, half-effeminate, with a certain vulnerability—call it weakness—that was, at once, appealing yet off-putting. Ewald was wearing socks; his shoes had been removed as a matter of procedure. He had on a white shirt open at the collar and gray trousers. As he opened his eyes and looked at Smith, his fatigue was apparant.
“Paul, did you kill Andrea Feldman?”
“Of course not.”
“You were sleeping with her, and she threatened to break up your marriage and ruin your father’s chances.”
“No. Andrea was demanding, but not to that extent. I’d come to hate her, though.” Ewald laughed. “Maybe I should have killed her. I’m ending up in the same position whether I did or not.”
“Not true, Paul. They have to prove you killed her, and if you didn’t, they’ll have a tough time with that.”
Ewald shook his head. “Pardon me, Mac, if I don’t enthusiastically agree with you. Have you ever had nightmares that you’d be accused of something you didn’t do, but you’d end up paying for it for the rest of your life?”
“Only after I’ve read novels in which that happened. It won’t happen here.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Smith broke the ensuing silence. “Do you have any idea who might have killed Andrea?”
“No, I don’t, although women like Andrea Feldman can get people pretty upset.”
Smith thought of Riga’s comment about mules, but kept it to himself. He rolled his fingers on the tabletop and chewed on his cheek. “Paul, had you been with her to the Buccaneer Motel, the place she had a key to?”
“Yes.”
“The night she was murdered?”
Ewald shook his head. “No, we didn’t have sex that night.”
“Didn’t Andrea have an apartment here in D.C.?”
“Yes, she did, but we never went there. I thought it was strange, but she said we should be more discreet than that, go out of town every time we got together.” He banged his fist on the table. “Damn it, I should have known better. If things weren’t so … rotten at home, maybe I wouldn’t have … hell, no sense blaming circumstances. No sense blaming Janet. The fact was, we did not have the kind of life recently that, among other things, promotes a healthy sexual existence between man and wife.”
Smith made a few notes on a pad. He asked, “When did you meet Andrea, Paul—after she’d joined your father’s campaign staff?”
“No. I met her several years ago at a party in Georgetown, sort of a business gathering at the home of one of my important customers. She was there with a date, but we had one of those locked-eyes reactions to each other all night. Before she left, she slipped me her phone number. I sat on it for a while. Then, one night, I had a fight with Janet, left the house, and called her. She suggested we meet for a drink. We did. One drink led to several, and we ended up driving to Maryland, where we made love for the first time.”
“I see,” Smith said. “Then what? Did you suggest she join your father’s staff?”
“I guess so. She told me how much she believed in my father’s cause, and how all the issues he stood for represented how she felt about things in this country. I probably did suggest that she apply for a job on his staff. Yes, exactly, that’s the way it happened. I suggested it, and told her I would put in a good word for her. She was hired about a week later.”
“What did you know about her background, Paul?”
“Not much, Mac. She was actually a very private person. Maybe that’s why I trusted her. Maybe that’s why we never went to her apartment. Maybe she didn’t want anybody there. Sometimes I wondered whether she had a live-in boyfriend, but it really didn’t matter.”
“Did you ask her whether she had a boyfriend living with her?”
“No. I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize the relationship. To be honest with you, Mac, I loved every minute we were together. It was sex the way you read about in cheap novels. She was good.” He looked at Smith, who said nothing. Ewald shrugged. “What can I say? I’m weak.”
“You do know that Janet is still missing?”
“Yes.”
“You have no idea where she might have gone?”
“None whatsoever. I called every place I could think of with no luck. Janet hates confrontation.”
“It seems she confronted you pretty directly about your relationship with Andrea.”
“Sure, but those were hysterical moments, times when she’d fly off the handle. She did that a lot. Janet’s kind of a split personality. She either reacts emotionally to something and throws a fit, or goes into a shell, runs away and hides. I guess she’s in her shell period now.”
Smith was taken by the fact that Paul seemed to have little concern about his wife’s disappearance—even whether she was alive or dead—but he chalked it up to the strange relationship between them, and the emotionally unsettling situation Paul Ewald was in at the moment. He said, “Paul, I want you to say nothing to anyone unless I’m present. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Not only do you understand it, Paul, will you follow that advice?”
“I’ll do my best, Mac. Have you talked to Mom and Dad?”
“No, they’re out of town. I intend to touch base with them the minute I leave here. I’m sure they’ve heard the news by now. You haven’t heard from them?”
“No.” His eyes misted. “God, Mac, it’s bad enough sitting here with you under these circumstances. I’m not sure I can face them. They won’t even let me wear shoes—it’s like I was a convicted murderer.”
Smith patted Paul’s arm and smiled. “You’ll be out in a couple of hours, Paul, I promise you that.” He stood. “MPD’s got its neck way out on this, pulling you in like this.”
Paul looked up at him. “I can’t believe you’re agreeing to help me, Mac. I thought you’d decided to never practice law again.”
“Which just goes to show how weak I am. I don’t see how I can do otherwise, considering my long friendship with the family and caring for the cause, you might call it. By the way, Paul, I assume you’ll accept me as your attorney?”
Paul’s lower lip trembled. “Accept you? How can I not? You’re the best.” He was crying. “Just lucky for me, I suppose, that I was born … with advantages.”
Smith was tempted to wrap his arms around him and give him a bear hug, kind of a manly shoring up of his spirits, but he restrained himself. This was no time for gestures of sentiment. At best, they would be misunderstood. Still, he put his hand on Paul’s.
Smith indicated to the guard that he was leaving. The door opened. Smith looked back at Ewald, who stood with his back to the door, his body moving in rhythm to his sobs.
“I’ll be back, Paul. In the meantime, remember what you’ve promised me.”
Smith placed a call from MPD to the office of Leonard Kramer, the District of Columbia’s district attorney. He was told that Kramer was out of the office and would not return for an hour. “Please have him call me the minute he comes in,” Smith said, not trying to soften the anger in his voice. He identified himself to the secretary, indicated that he was representing Paul Ewald, and reiterated the urgency of his call.
A few reporters from early that morning had continued to wait outside Smith’s home. He took the same tack—“No comment, sorry”—and entered the house, where Rufus greated him in his usual exuberant fashion. “No comment for you, either,” Smith said, rubbing the huge animal behind the ears. He poured himself coffee from the carafe and sat at the desk in his study. Twenty minutes later, Leslie Ewald called. They’d just returned to Washington. “This is outrageous, Mac,” she said. “How dare they arrest Paul!”
Smith thought of Riga’s word games and decided not to play them with Leslie. “My sentiments exactly, Leslie. I just came from visiting Paul. He’s all right, shaken naturally by the events, but holding up very nicely. I assured him he’d be out before the day is over. I have a call in now to the district attorney.”
“Can they do this legally, abduct him out of his own house in the middle of the night?”
“No … well, they shouldn’t, but they did, and they’ll get away with it unless Paul wants to bring civil charges.”
“I’m sure that’s the last thing on anyone’s mind,” Leslie said. “Can we see him? I mean now?”
“I could arrange it, but I recommend against it. Give me until early afternoon. I’ll be in touch. For now, let me clear the line for the DA’s call. I’ll be back to you as soon as I know something.”
Kramer called and said in a low, rich voice that always seemed to contain an imminent laugh, “The last thing I thought I’d be doing was calling Mac Smith as defense counsel. How are you, Mac?”
“I’d be a lot better if Paul Ewald were sitting at home right now eating a tuna-fish sandwich. What the hell could have prompted you to haul him in this way?”
“Hold on, Mac. There’s a division of labor here. We prosecute, MPD investigates.”
“You aren’t suggesting that Joe Riga did this of his own volition without an okay from you? I know Joe. Doesn’t wash.”
“You do realize, Mac, that we aren’t dealing here with your run-of-the-mill murder case.”
“True, but we are dealing with a run-of-the-mill Constitution under which we function. That make sense to you?”
Kramer was silent a moment, then he said, “It was MPD’s opinion that Paul Ewald was a threat to disappear. They acted on that instinct, and I can’t say I blame them.”
“Are you charging Ewald?”
“Not at the moment. He’s considered a prime suspect, and sure as hell is an important material witness. We’re operating under the theory that Mr. Ewald, the younger of the two, is damned important to the case.”
“Who concocted that theory, Len? I get the feeling you’re talking about someone other than yourself.”
There was silence. Then Kramer said, “There’s been a little pressure.”
“Pressure? Who’d put pressure on you, Len? Ken Ewald is a Democrat. You wouldn’t be sitting in your chair if you weren’t, and your boss, too.”
“Look, Mac, let’s drop this.”
“Happy to, Len, provided Paul Ewald is back at home eating a tuna-fish sandwitch by two o’clock.”
“We can arrange that.”
“I know you can. The question is will you?”
“You have my word.”
“Good. You are, of course, aware of the embarrassment to Paul’s father, Senator Ewald.”
“I’m not in the business of embarrassing presidential candidates.” He was angry.
“That may be true of you, Len, but somebody sure as hell knows what the embarrassment factor is here. Thanks.”
“Welcome back to the nasty side of life, Professor.”
Smith worked through the lunch hour making notes on a yellow legal pad. The ringing of the phone stopped him. It was Annabel Reed calling from her Georgetown gallery. Smith filled her in on what had happened that morning and asked what was new with her.
“I think I’m going to be able to buy Tlazolteotl.”
“Tlazolteotl?”
“You mispronounce it.”
“So what? What is it?”
“The ancient Aztec goddess of childbirth. I’ve been negotiating for it with a dealer in New York for a long time. Dumbarton Oaks wanted it, too, but they already have a superb example. That was the point I kept making. I guess I was effective in making it. It’s mine!”
Smith smiled at her enthusiasm. He loved her in all weather and temperaments, but responded with special verve when she was high on having captured a prize for her gallery.
“When do you take possession of Tlazolteotl?”
She laughed. “You mispronounced it again.”
“Sorry. I’ve seen pictures of it. That’s the stone rendering of a woman squatting in childbirth, right?”
“Yes, but you don’t have to be so crude about it. A celebration is definitely in order. My treat, your choice. I’ll even go to one of those macho steak houses you like.”
“I have a better idea. Let’s celebrate at your place. I’d like to stay away from the public for a while.”
“Fine, but if we’re celebrating at home, the meal is on you. Cook it, or bring it in.”
“I’d love to cook it, but I won’t have the time to do justice to the sort of meal the goddess of childbirth deserves. Trust me, as they say in Hollywood. Six o’clock?”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Smith’s phone rang all afternoon, causing him to put the answering machine on so he could screen calls and decide whether or not to take them. He debated returning to MPD headquarters to be present when Paul was released but decided against it. Len Kramer was a man of his word. That was confirmed when the phone rang at 2:15. It was Kramer. “Paul Ewald is on his way home to make a sandwich, Mac.”
“Thank you,” Smith said, “for letting me know.”
He called Leslie Ewald and told her that Paul had been released and should be home shortly. He made a couple of other calls before a wave of fatigue came over him. He took a shower and a short nap. Then, before leaving for Annabel’s house, he called the Information operator in Baltimore and said, “Last name is Buffolino, Anthony Buffolino. It might be listed as a residence or as a private detective agency.” The operator gave him both.
He hung up and stared at the phone, then lifted the receiver and dialed Tony Buffolino’s home number.
“… and so I called his home and got an answering machine. He sounded angry on his message. He said something like, ‘I’m not here, so come on over and rip me off if you want. Otherwise, say what it is you have to say and I’ll get back to you sometime.”
Annabel raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “Lovely dinner you brought in. For you, it’s takeout; for me, bringing in. Are you sure you want to get involved with him again, Mac?”
“Yes, I think I do. He’s exactly the person I need.”
“Why do you need anyone?” she asked. “Paul has been released. Do you think there’s a likelihood he’ll be charged with the murder?”
“I don’t know, but it remains a distinct possibility. Besides, if it isn’t Paul, it could be someone else very close to Ken and Leslie. Paul’s release doesn’t end anything, Annabel. To the contrary, I think it represents the beginning of something long and difficult. Tony was a superb investigator, probably the best MPD had. Yes, I think I could use him … if he calls back, and if he’s interested. We didn’t part company on the best of terms.”
“I could never understand that. You saved him from criminal prosecution. He should have been grateful.”
“He didn’t see it that way. He was bounced off the force, which, for him, was the ultimate penalty. He loved being a cop, loved it like no one I’ve ever known. At any rate, I asked him to call me at home. If he does, he’ll get my answering machine, which, as you know, takes a more civil tone than his.”
Annabel laughed. “Of course I know it. It’s my voice. I even tried to come up with a British accent for you.”
“And you were good. A Brit wouldn’t buy it, but Tony will.” He moved to where she was sitting on her living room couch and put his arm around her. “When do you take possession of the woman hunched over in childbirth?”
“So crude.”
“Just practicing for Tony Buffolino.”
“Two weeks. I pick it up in New York.”
“I’ll go with you, to guard you and the stone brood mare.”
“That would be nice. We can make a weekend of it.”
He pressed his face to her long white neck. “You know I love you, Annabel.”
“Sometimes.” The feel of his hands on the front of her robe was too pleasurable to protest. He continued to stroke her, his fingertips tracing the lines of her body beneath the silk, soon teasing, provoking, causing her to make sounds that to Smith sounded like the “meow” of a contented Siamese. She began to touch him, too, and brushed her lips across his, then stabbed fiercely at his lips, laughing until he parted the sash of her robe and moved his fingers over her skin.
“I am at a large disadvantage …,” she said playfully, her voice trailing off like his fingers. “Get naked, Smith.”
He hated to break the bond between them, but he did. Moments later, they were both nude and heading for the bedroom.
Her housekeeper had changed the linen that morning. Between the clean, smooth sheets, they easily slid into first a gentle, then a more aggressive, display of their hunger for each other.
After they were spent, she whispered only, “Whew!”
“I hate to bring up a rival,” Smith said, getting up from the bed, “but I want to call my machine.” He picked up the phone, punched in his code, and listened to messages.
“Did Buffolino call?” she asked when he was finished.
“Yes. He said, ‘A blast from the past.’ Then he added, ‘Smith, I want to tell you to drop dead. But I learned a couple of lives ago never to shut the door to anything. Call me. Any hour. I’m up late. I got this thing for old movies.’ ”
“A character.”
“That and other things. Do you mind if I call him now?”
“Why should I mind? You’ve already seen to it that I’ve suffered my delightful ‘little death.’…” She smiled. “ ‘Deaths’ is more accurate.”
“I’ll use the phone in the living room.”
“No, stay here. I can touch you while you talk.”
He dialed. “Tony?”
“Yeah. Smith?”
“Yes. I got your message.”
“I got yours, too. Hey, I heard about you finding the body of that chick who got it.”
“Yes, I was walking my dog, and …” Nobody cared that he was walking his dog. “Tony, I have a case that I thought you might be interested in working on.”
“A case?” He snickered. “What’d they do, fire you at the U? What’d you do, put the make on a Betty Co-ed?” A louder laugh this time. “Nice young stuff at the U, huh?”
“Nothing like that, Tony. I’d like to talk to you tomorrow.”
“That’ll be tough. I’m in the middle of … renovations … on my office … suite. I got a big case going. I may win it. It’s called prosperity. You want breakfast? You want to buy breakfast? I’ll come to D.C., any place you say as long as it’s good. No greasy spoons, okay?”
Smith couldn’t help but smile as he listened to that voice he’d heard so often when he was defending Buffolino. “Sure,” he said, “breakfast, my treat, my pleasure. Seven o’clock at the …?”
“Seven o’clock? What, are you crazy? I work nights, man. Make it nine.”
Smith sighed. “All right, nine, Tony. Be on time.”
“I’m always on time. You know that. I just like to be realistic. You know the airlines build in their schedules all kinds of time so that they look like they arrive on time? All a fraud. All a fraud. I pick a realistic ETA and I make it. I’ll see you at nine.”
“What?”
“Are you available to take on a case that could run a while?”
“I’m up to my duff in cases, Mac, but I’ll check my calendar. Maybe I can juggle things, if I decide to work for you. Know what?”
“What, Tony?”
“It’ll be good to see you again.”
“I’ll enjoy it, too. Nine o’clock at … where are we meeting?”
Buffolino said, “The Jockey Club in the Ritz-Carlton. We’ll have a … whatta they call it … a power breakfast.”
“Fine. Nine at the Jockey Club.”
“You got it, Mac Smith.” He paused. “Hey, you okay?”
“Yes.”
“You sound different.”
“You don’t. Good night, Tony.”
Smith hung up, and was at once amused and annoyed. Buffolino’s bravado and bluff was the stuff of all losers. On the other hand, Tony had attributes, strengths that Smith needed, including candor, know-how, street smarts. Smith had once had a good staff, good people, who’d drifted away into other lives when he closed his practice. The little speech he’d made that day informing them of his decision had been difficult. A few cried, a few swore, one or two shrugged it off and promised to go on to bigger and better things. Each handled it in his or her own way. Of course. Just another instance of life happening while other plans are being made.
“Mac,” Annabel said, touching him.
“What?” He drew a sharp breath.
“Spend the night.”
Even though he was an experienced lawyer, there was no argument from him.