After dropping Annabel off at National Airport to catch the crowded 8 A.M. shuttle, he went to a business machine store and arranged to have necessary office equipment delivered to the Watergate. He made another stop at an office supply store and ordered basic supplies.
Buffolino was at the suite when Smith arrived shortly before eleven.
“Nice suit,” Smith said.
“Thanks. I needed some new threads if I’m going to be hanging around a place like this.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Downstairs. They got a men’s shop.”
Smith raised one eyebrow.
“It was on sale.”
“I see. Are you comfortable enough here, Tony?”
“Jesus, sure I am. I really appreciate you going for this, Mac.” Buffolino looked around the living room. “Brings back old memories.”
“Unpleasant ones, I assume,” said Smith. “Frankly, I was surprised … no, shocked is more like it, that you actually chose this suite to stay in.”
Buffolino shrugged. “Yeah, well, I figured I’d relive the crime, like. Know what I mean? You see, I was afraid of this place. My life went south here. Actually, it’s not as unpleasant as I figured it might be. Funny, when I walked in here, I could almost see that dirtbag Garcia sitting in the chair. That’s one thing I’d like to do before I pack it in, Mac.”
“What’s that, Tony?”
“Find him and settle the score.”
“Tony, that case is closed. Still, when this one is over, you’ll have enough money to buy a plane ticket to Panama, if you want. He went back, didn’t he?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“You’d be on his turf.”
“That’s okay,” Tony said grimly. “He was on mine.”
Smith told Tony about the things to be delivered that day, and also said that there was the possibility he’d have to go to San Francisco, not only to dig a little further into Andrea Feldman’s background, but to find her mother, too.
“Hey, great,” Buffolino said. “Always wanted to see Frisco. Good thing I bought this suit. Maybe I should get another.”
“That one looks like it will travel well, Tony.”
The message sank in, and Buffolino made a mental note not to bring up any further mentions of personal expenditures. He said, “You know, Mac, you’re okay, putting me up in a place like this. I never figured you’d pop for it, but … well, I just want you to know I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Including what you done for me when IA set me up in here. I didn’t much go for it then, but I know you did right by me.”
Smith was becoming slightly embarrassed, and was relieved when the phone rang. He picked it up.
“Mac, Morgan Tubbs.”
“Good morning, Morgan. Come up with anything on Greist?”
“An interesting, albeit unsavory, character,” said Tubbs. “Let’s see, Herbert Greist is fifty-eight years old, a graduate of City College Law at the age of thirty. After passing the Bar, he worked for the public defender for four years after which he became deeply involved with the ACLU, but only for a year. He’s been in private practice ever since. There seems to have been a series of offices, the latest of which is on West Seventy-eighth.”
“Yes, I have that address,” Smith said. “So far, I fail to see why you consider him to be unsavory—or even interesting.”
“Well, Mac, here’s what led me to say that. Herbert Greist seems to have a penchant for affiliating with what some would see as our less patriotic element.”
“ ‘Less patriotic’?”
“Yes. Of course, none of this comes from official sources, but as it happens, we have a young attorney here whose uncle was once involved with Greist through—well, none of that matters. What our young associate tells me is that he called his uncle, and his uncle informed him that Greist’s practice is rather restricted to lower-echelon socialist and Communist sympathizers who run afoul of authorities. According to the uncle, the FBI and CIA have dossiers on Greist several yards in length and continue to add to them.”
Buffolino motioned to Smith across the room that there was a carafe of fresh coffee. Smith nodded—yes, he wanted a cup—and said, “The FBI and CIA run files on anyone who subscribes to The Nation and who drinks pink lemonade. That doesn’t mean Greist is a fellow traveler.” His use of that old-fashioned, McCarthy-era term made him smile.
“True, but there is more juice here than pink lemonade, Mac.”
“Being facetious,” Smith said.
Tubbs’s voice suddenly turned jarringly proper. “I certainly hope so.”
Smith asked, “Any indication that Greist ever practiced law in San Francisco?”
“As a matter of fact, there is. He evidently was general counsel for a little more than a year to the Embarcadero Opera Company.” Tubbs laughed. “Pornographic opera, no doubt, being in San Francisco.”
“Wrong,” Smith said. “It’s a small, ambitious, and pretty damn good opera company. General counsel? Doesn’t make sense. Performing companies like that are lucky to get a young opera-buff attorney to look over their lease. They don’t have general counsels.”
“Well, that’s what I was told. That’s right, I forgot you were an inveterate opera lover. You must miss New York.”
“Not at all,” Smith said. “The Washington Opera Company is first-rate. You say he was general counsel to the Embarcadero group. When was he out there?”
“Three years ago, I believe.”
“Hmmm,” Smith said, thinking back to a benefit performance for the Embarcadero Company he had attended in that same year at which an impressive array of singers had appeared. He’d had that same thought during Roseanna Gateaux’s performance at the Ewald gala the night Andrea Feldman was murdered: She’d been one of the stars who’d lent her name and talent to the fund-raising event for the struggling San Francisco company.
“Anything else interesting?” Smith asked.
“No, Mac, that’s about it. There were some Bar Association complaints against him, but action was never taken other than a few talks. Just your average, run-of-the-mill lowlife barrister.” He gave forth with a hearty laugh.
Smith winced at the characterization. It was undoubtedly true, but Morgan Tubbs made such characterizations of anyone who hadn’t graduated from an Ivy League school, and who dealt in any aspect of the law other than corporate high finance. “Thanks, Morgan, I appreciate your help.”
“My pleasure, Mac, but you have to promise to fill me in on all the intrigue the next time you get to New York.”
Smith managed not to commit to that before hanging up.
He sipped from the cup of coffee Buffolino had handed him, found a phone number on a scrap of paper in his pocket, and called it. Moments later, he was connected to Annabel’s suite at the Plaza. “How was the flight?” he asked.
“Fine. The suite is lovely.”
“Glad to hear it.” He filled her in on what he’d learned about Herbert Greist.
“Mac.”
“What?”
“I just had a chill.”
“Not that kind of chill, Mac, one that comes from inside. I can’t explain it, but something tells me this is about to become a lot more complicated than you anticipated.”
Smith laughed. “I think it will all be considerably simpler when you’ve had a chance to hear what Greist is really after. By the way, Annabel, see if you can get a handle on where Mrs. Feldman is.”
“I have that on my list of questions. Where will you be when I’m done with him?”
“Hard to say. I might be here at the Watergate.” He told her of steps he’d taken that morning to equip the place. “I want to get over to Ken and Leslie’s house sometime today. I know they’re about to hit the campaign trail again, and there are questions I need to have answered. I also want to stop in and see Paul, and to keep looking for Janet. In the rush of things, I’ve almost forgotten I have a client. Try me at home if you can’t get me at either of those two places. I’ll be anxious to hear how it goes.”
Smith had no sooner hung up when there was a knock on the door. Buffolino, who was reclining on the couch, jumped up and said, “Hey, must be lunch. I forgot I ordered it.” He opened the door and a young man in a starched white jacket, white shirt, and black bow tie wheeled in a serving cart covered with pristine linen. He removed metal covers from dishes, and took pains to make sure all the elements were in perfect order.
“Yeah, thanks, looks great,” Buffolino said, handing him some bills.
Smith came over to see what was on the table. There was a large shrimp cocktail, filet mignon, shoestring potatoes, an arugula-and-endive salad, hot rolls, and a shimmering, undulating crème caramel.
Buffolino gave Smith a sheepish grin. “Want some?” he asked. “I can’t eat all of this.”
“No, but thanks anyway, Tony. Go ahead and eat before it gets cold.”
Buffolino wedged the linen napkin between his shirt collar and neck and started in.
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” Smith asked.
“I got some calls in around town, and out on the Coast. I figure I’ll concentrate on trying to find Ewald’s wife, Janet, unless you got something else for me to do.”
“Nothing specific. Be here when they deliver the equipment and supplies, if that won’t inconvenience you.”
Smith’s sarcasm was sharper than the knife Buffolino was using to cut his steak. He shook his head. “Hell, Mac, I’m yours. You can count on me.”
Smith left for the Ewald house. Tony Buffolino wiped his mouth, got up, and called the house where his second wife and two daughters lived. One of them, Irene, answered. “Hey, babe, it’s Daddy,” Buffolino said.
“Hello, Daddy.” Her response was pointedly cold, but Tony knew better than to mention it. He was a lousy father, and he’d never denied it. He hadn’t seen Irene or her younger sister, Marie, in over six months. “Hey, look, Irene,” he said, keeping his tone upbeat, “your old man’s made a score, a big one, big names, the biggest. You know them all, you read about them in the paper. They’re paying some good dough, and I’m set up here at a suite in the Watergate Hotel like some rich Arab in with the oil money.” He waited for a response, received none. “I want you and your sister to come up for a little party. Mom, too. It’ll be nice to spend a little time together. They got swimming pools inside and out, the best food you ever ate, the works. It’s a suite, a real big suite with more than one room. The furniture is all leather. What do you say?”
“I’ll have to ask Mommy.”
“Her, too, remember. Dinner’s on me, for her, too.”
His daughter put down the phone, and Buffolino heard soft female voices in the background. When she came back on the line, Irene asked, “When?”
“I was thinking about tonight, if you guys can make it. I think I’ll be heading for Frisco—San Francisco—in a day or two, maybe be gone a week, who knows? Yeah, how about tonight?”
His ex-wife took the phone from her daughter. “Tony, what is this crap?”
“No crap, babe. Come see for yourself. Please, you and the girls.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yup, I’m sure. Seven o’clock, suite 1117. Make it seven-thirty. I got to run some errands.”
“Tony, if this ends up some …”
“Trust me, babe, and everybody dress up. Remember how you always wanted to try caviar?”
“Yes.” She couldn’t help but laugh.
“You tasted it since we split?”
“No, but everything else has tasted better ever since.”
He let the comment slide. “Tonight’s the night, babe, all the caviar you want, and buckets a’ champagne. Ciao!”
As Buffolino finished his lunch at the Watergate, a limousine carrying Senator Jody Backus and Ken Ewald’s campaign manager, Ed Farmer, pulled up in front of Anton’s Loyal Opposition Bar and Restaurant. Since opening a few years earlier, on First Street NE, on Capitol Hill, it had become a favorite hangout for members of Congress. Backus hadn’t been there since deciding to run against Ewald, but he’d been announcing to his staff lately that he missed it, needed “someplace normal where this ol’ boy is comfortable.” His staff knew that his real need was Anton’s blackened redfish. He’d been expressing a yen for it for the past three days.
“What a pleasure to see you again, Senator,” a tuxedoed host said at the door.
“Same here, Frank,” Backus said. “Trouble with runnin’ for office is that everybody wants you in places you damn well don’t want to be. You’ve got the black redfish ready?”
Frank laughed. “Of course. The minute your office called, I made sure we did. Your usual table?”
“That’ll be fine.”
They were led through the restaurant, where Backus, to the trailing agent’s chagrin, stopped to shake hands. Farmer watched the senator from Georgia with intense interest. Despite being overweight and crass, and with a tendency to sweat even in the blast of an air conditioner, there was an unmistakable dignity to the man. He almost looked elegant, which, Farmer rationalized, was the result of the power he wielded. Power seemed to iron out wrinkles in suits, and to assign a certain charm to crude behavior.
They moved past two large glass panels on which a donkey and elephant were etched, and to a banquette in the rear. Etched-glass panels along the back of each bench created a relatively private setting. Backus struggled to maneuver his bulk into the banquette. Across from him, the lithe Farmer slid easily into place.
Backus was sweating as he said to the host, “Bring me my usual Blanton’s on the rocks and a side a’ soda water. What are you drinkin’, Mr. Farmer?”
“Perrier, please.”
Backus’s laugh was a low rumble. “Someday, Mr. Farmer, somebody will give a satisfactory explanation to this simple ol’ farm boy why people pay for water in a fancy bottle when it’s free out a’ any ol’ tap.”
“Marketing, Senator,” Farmer said.
“Like sellin’ a politician, huh?”
“I suppose you could draw the analogy.” Farmer’s small face was particularly tight above his yellow-and-brown polka-dot bow tie. His glasses were oversized on the bridge of an aquiline nose. He glanced quickly across the room to where the Secret Service agents sat in their own banquette. He said to Backus, “I would have preferred to meet in an office.”
“I know you would prefer that, Mr. Farmer, but I had to get out of offices, settle in a public place where real people congregate. I need that like a drug addict needs his daily fix.” Farmer started to say something, but Backus continued. “Your boss could use a little of that, too, you know. He’s an insular fella, I’ll say that for him. Likes to be alone too much. Sometimes, I see a little Richard Nixon in him.” Backus’s fleshy face sagged. His smile was gone. He leaned as far forward as his girth would allow and said, “I worry about Kenneth Ewald. He’s like a son to me. I think the rigors of this campaign”—a slight smile returned—“and the rigors of an active social life, to say nothin’ of fulfilling his role as a family man and havin’ to stand tall where his son is involved, are takin’ their toll. You agree?”
“No, sir, I don’t. Senator Ewald is holding up quite nicely.”
“Damn shame what happened to that Feldman girl the other night.”
“A tragedy.”
“Certainly for her. Have you seen Paul?”
“Since his arrest? No.”
“Awful thing for a mother and father to have to face, havin’ your only son a murder suspect.”
“That’s all he is at this point, Senator, a suspect.”
“Don’t think he did the evil deed, huh?”
“I don’t know.”
Backus sat back and slapped beefy hands on the dusty rose tablecloth. “Take a look at the menu, Mr. Farmer. I recommend the blackened redfish, but everything’s pretty good here.”
A waiter brought their drinks. Backus raised his glass filled with rich, amber bourbon, and said, “To the next four years of a Democratic administration. A-men!”
Farmer sipped his water and stared at Backus. Personally, Farmer found Backus to be everything he despised in politics. But one thing Ed Farmer never wanted to be accused of was naiveté. Personal responses meant little in Washington and politics. More important was the aura of power that Backus exuded, his crass style be damned. The big southern senator’s body count topped that of everyone else in Congress, and he knew the location, width, and depth of every grave.
Backus locked eyes with Farmer as he downed his drink and waved for a waiter to bring him another.
“Sir?” the waiter asked Farmer.
“A small bottle of Château Giscours Margeaux, ’83, please.”
“That’s what I like to see,” said Backus. “I don’t much care for wine, but—”
“Senator, could we get to the point of why we’re here?”
Backus swallowed his annoyance at being interrupted. “That would be sincerely appreciated, Mr. Farmer. Proceed. This is your meeting.”
“And your check?”
“If you insist. I suppose Ken Ewald doesn’t pay you a hell of a lot.”
“Money didn’t motivate me into politics. Public service did.”
“Just like me,” Backus said. “What’ll Ken Ewald toss you if he makes it, Mr. Farmer, chief a’ staff? Press secretary? Health, Education and Welfare? I’d heartily endorse the latter. You’d be damn good givin’ out welfare to the shiftless nonproducers of this society.”
Farmer sniffed the wine, tasted it, nodded to the waiter, and returned his attention to the large man across from him. “Some people are suggesting it might be time to talk about a coalition.”
“Coalition? With who?”
“You and him.”
Backus laughed. “I figured that’d be comin’ up. Senator Ewald must be a mite nervous these days about the way things are goin’.”
“There’s some truth to that,” Farmer said flatly.
“No wonder. I heard him say in that speech he gave last week that the Republicans have had a lock on the White House all these years, and that he is the one who has what it takes to pick that lock. Nice phrase your speechwriters came up with, but the fact is, I don’t think your master, Ken Ewald, is in a position to pick anybody’s lock these days, not with havin’ one of his staff members murdered with his own weapon, and havin’ most fingers pointin’ at his own son. Tell me, Ed, what’s your honest evaluation of the possibility that Paul Ewald killed that poor young thing?”
Farmer hesitated before saying, “I don’t think Paul Ewald killed Andrea Feldman.”
“You don’t sound like you’re brimmin’ over with conviction, Ed.”
“No one knows what happened,” Farmer said.
“And from Ken Ewald’s perspective, just as well nobody does know, least not till after November.” Backus cocked his head and smiled smugly. “Know what, Ed? I don’t think your boss is goin’ to make it at the convention. What do you think?”
Farmer sipped his wine.
“Just how nervous is your man?” Backus asked.
“Probably not as nervous as you hope,” Farmer replied. “He’s ignoring any pressure to offer you the vice-presidency up front.”
“That’s about the only thing I agree with him about. I don’t intend to be anybody’s vice-president. You hear me? You make sure Senator Ewald hears me.”
“Yes, I heard you,” Farmer said, touching the end of his bow tie, then examining a class ring on his finger.
“I suggest we eat,” Backus said, “unless you’ve got more to say.”
“No, I have nothing more to say, Senator Backus, except that your toast to a Democratic administration won’t mean much if Ken Ewald doesn’t make it at the convention.”
“I don’t read it that way. Seems to me that all he has to do is keep on the course he’s takin’, and this country might be proposin’ a toast to this ol’ southern boy on November nine. That wouldn’t upset you too much, would it, Ed?” Backus’s moonlike face was quiescent; the liquor had added a touch of color.
“I suppose not,” Farmer said, “although having you as president, Senator Backus, wouldn’t represent much of a change from the past eight years, a donkey instead of an elephant, but not much else different.”
Backus looked above Farmer’s head to the etched donkey and elephant on the glass behind him. He smiled, said, “At least we’d have a president who’s in the mainstream of American thought.”
“Like President Manning,” Farmer said.
“Manning’s not a bad fella, just handin’ out favors to the wrong people.”
“Like Colonel Morales and the Reverend Kane?”
“Hell, no. Morales is fightin’ for freedom in Panama, and the last I heard, the American people stand up for freedom. As for the Reverend Kane, he tends to people’s souls.”
“Unless they’re Panamanian. Then he tends to their stockpile of weapons.”
“You sound like your boss, Ed,” Backus said.
“I’m supposed to sound like him. I’m his campaign manager.”
Backus nodded and narrowed his eyes. “I like you, Ed. I like a man who says what he’s supposed to say even though it don’t necessarily represent what he thinks.”
“I believe in what Ken Ewald stands for,” Farmer said.
“Unless he’s not sittin’ in a chair where he can put his ideas into action.”
Farmer’s smile was thin. “Like you, Senator Backus, proclaiming your wholehearted support of Ken if he gets the nomination.”
“I’m a Democrat. I owe my allegiance to whoever comes out of the convention as the candidate. I just hope it isn’t Ken Ewald. I got grave doubts about where he might lead this country.”
“And you would prefer someone, Democrat or Republican, who espouses the Manning doctrine.”
Backus leaned forward and his voice became slightly fatherly. “Ed, we’ve still got us a two-party system, Democrats and Republicans, but that doesn’t mean a hell of a lot anymore. What matters today is political vision, not party labels.”
Farmer listened silently to the quiet speech he was given by Backus. The southern senator was right, of course. There had been a shift from a two-party system in which Democrats and Republicans competed for elected office, to one in which conservatives and liberals did the vying, Democrats and Republicans sometimes joining forces on the Right, against Democrats and Republicans hooking up together in an equally uneasy alliance on the Left. Philosophy or ideology had supplanted party politics. “The cause,” no matter what it was, had been elevated above allegiance to party which, some claimed, represented a positive step in that it caused the men and women of Congress and the executive to act according to their consciences, rather than along strict party lines. Under the old system, it would have made sense to pair people like Ewald and Backus together to combine the liberal and conservative voters. North and South. Big-city guy and rural American representative. But such coalitions were no longer viable. Ewald and Backus were polar opposites. The fact was—and Farmer knew it—Ken Ewald, despite his seemingly immense popularity, and his victory in a majority of the primaries, did not represent the mainstream of American thought. He was too liberal, too linked to big-budget social programs, perceived as being too soft on crime and national defense. Ewald’s nomination could end up yet another example of the Democrats’ penchant for self-destruction, a candidate who stood for the principles of the party but not the principles of the majority of the American voters. McCarthy. McGovern. Carter. Dukakis. Ewald.
After they ordered, Backus said, “You’re obviously an ambitious fella, Ed.”
“Yes, I have ambition.”
“Seems like everybody in Washington has ambition.”
“You aren’t critical of that, are you, Senator? I’d say Senator Jody Backus has demonstrated a fair amount of ambition in his career.”
“A different thing, Ed. A politician’s ambitions are based upon his desire to serve the public. Then there are all those ambitious men and women lookin’ to grab onto his coattails. That’s how some politicians get in trouble, havin’ the wrong young men and women hangin’ on their coattails.”
Farmer’s thin nostrils flared. “Are you including me in that category, Senator Backus? It seems to me you ought to be more respectful of my ambition.”
Backus gave him a conciliatory smile. “Don’t take personal offense, Ed. I just call it like I see it. Your level of ambition certainly hasn’t been lost on me.”
Farmer said nothing.
“You see, Mr. Farmer, I like ambition in young men, big dreams, feet gettin’ bigger along with the head, climbin’ and stretchin’ and sniffin’ around the ones who can do them the most good. Of course, I’m not talking about loyalty here. Lots a’ times, loyalty and ambition don’t go hand in hand.”
“I’m not sure I appreciate the tone this conversation is taking,” Farmer said.
“Now ain’t that too bad.”
“I happen to be a very loyal person, Senator.”
“Depends on how you define it, Ed. What do you figure got that nice young woman killed—too much ambition, too much loyalty, or not enough common sense when it came to the people she chose to run with?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Farmer said in a low voice.
The waiter arrived with their appetizers. Farmer touched his mouth with his napkin, slid out of the booth, and said to the restaurant host, “I just remembered an important appointment.” He turned to Backus and said as pleasantly as possible, “I really hate to leave, Senator. Enjoy your blackened redfish, and thank you for the wine. It was palatable.”
Mac Smith waited a long time in the study before Ken Ewald came through the door. “Sorry, Mac, but things get crazier every day.”
When they were seated, Smith asked Ewald a number of questions that had been on his mind. Then he said, “Ken, we are alone in this room. You mentioned to me that the night Andrea Feldman was murdered, you’d left your office to meet with a woman at the Watergate Hotel.”
Ewald glanced nervously at the door.
“I’m not in the habit of informing wives about husband’s indiscretions, Ken, but I have to know everything that occurred that night, with everyone.”
“I don’t see why.”
“Because you’ve brought me into this situation. You’ve asked me to be Paul’s attorney if he’s charged, and although he hasn’t been yet, there is every possibility that he will be, depending on what MPD manages to come up with. You can’t bring me in and then stonewall me.”
“Yes, of course, you’re right, Mac, but what contribution could revealing this woman’s identity possibly make to your defense of Paul, if it comes to that?”
“I don’t know, Ken, but I learned long ago not to censor myself until I had the facts. When I have the facts, I can make a determination whether it contributes or not. I do not intend to be surprised at answers the DA may come up with.”
Ewald sighed and said, “Okay.” He cast another quick look at the door, lowered his voice, and asked, “What is it you want to know?”
“Simple. Who was the woman at the Watergate?”
Ewald frowned. “Mac, I really don’t think …”
Smith stared at Ewald across the small space separating them. “Who was it?” he asked again.
“All right. But I’m putting tremendous trust in you.”
“You have to. Do it with confidence.”
“I worked in my office until about two in the morning,” Ewald said. “And then …”
He’d called his home before leaving the office, got Marcia Mims, and said to her, “Tell Mrs. Ewald I’ll be here quite late. A last-minute meeting has come up.”
“Yes, sir,” Marcia said.
His unmarked blue Cadillac was at the curb in front of the office building. The driver opened a rear door for the presidential candidate and his bodyguard, Agent Jeroldson. “To the Watergate,” Ewald told the driver. “Go in the garage.”
The driver made a U-turn, and a few minutes later came to a stop in front of a small service elevator beneath the Watergate. “I’ll be back here soon,” Ewald said as he and Jeroldson got out of the car and pushed a button next to the elevator. They stepped in and rode to the twelfth floor, where Jeroldson fell behind Ewald as they walked down the hushed, carpeted corridor until reaching the door to a suite at the far end. Ewald poised to knock, then looked back at Jeroldson, who momentarily locked eyes with him, then looked away at an elaborate flower arrangement on a table. “Meet me downstairs at four,” Ewald said. “You’re free until then.”
Jeroldson nodded, which angered Ewald. Every other Secret Service agent who’d been assigned to him was courteous, would have said, “Yes, sir.” Ewald almost said so, but stopped himself. Another time. “You’re relieved,” he said. “Please go.” He watched the square-shouldered, thick-necked agent slowly turn and walk toward a bank of public elevators. He waited until Jeroldson had punched the button before knocking.
“Ken?” a voice asked from behind the door.
Ewald looked to where Jeroldson stood. The elevator had arrived, but Jeroldson hadn’t entered it. He was looking at Ewald, motionless, his eyes conveying one final, mute message. He stepped into the elevator.
An eye confirmed the identity of the visitor through the peephole. The door was unlocked and opened. Ewald stared at the thick, loose black hair flowing over the shoulders of the white silk robe she wore. A large diamond suspended on a gold chain rested on the upper ivory reaches of her stunning breasts. Her fingers, bright crimson nail polish at their tips, were laden with rings. Her bare toes were tipped in the same red. A heavy scent of Joy filled the doorway, the perfume causing an instant and involuntary physical reaction in him. Leslie used only an occasional dab of Mitsouko, or L’Air du Temps, preferring the smell of soap. Ewald liked that smell, too … on her. But this—this you could swim into.…
Roseanna Gateaux stepped back, a smile on her lips. Ewald gave one final glance at the hallway, stepped over the threshold, embraced the voluptuous, warm, and welcoming body of the famous diva, and gently kicked the door shut.
“Satisfied?” Ewald asked.
“Nothing to be satisfied about, Ken, but at least the question has been answered.”
“I assume you know the great faith I have in you to have told you.”
“Yes, okay.” Smith stood. “I really have to go. We’ll keep in touch.”
As they stood at the front door, Ewald said, “I just want you to know, Mackensie Smith, how much Leslie and I appreciate what you’re doing for us. I don’t think there is another person in this country we could turn to with such confidence.”
Smith grunted. “I’m doing it for you and for Paul. I’ll be in touch.”