Smith called the Ewald house on Tuesday morning.
“Hello, Leslie, it’s Mac. Is Ken there?”
“No, he’s not.” She didn’t sound happy. “He’s in a series of meetings all day.”
“I see. I am anxious to talk with him. Any idea when I might be able to catch him?”
“Well … he’s meeting with party bigwigs at the Willard at four. They think the nomination’s okay, or almost, but they also want peace with Backus. I’m meeting Ken at the Watergate at six to go over plans for the upcoming testimonial dinner.”
“I see. Maybe I could steal a little of his time between meetings. Think you can arrange that?”
“I’ll try. The Watergate meeting is in suite 1110. Why don’t you stop by at five-thirty.”
“I’ll be there. Thanks.”
At four-thirty that afternoon, in one of the Willard Hotel’s renovated suites, Ken Ewald sat in a meeting with the chairman of the Democratic party, Matt Blair, and Blair’s staff.
“Ken, I think it’s wonderful that things have been sorted out with your son,” said Blair. “It must have been a difficult time for the family.”
“Very difficult,” Ewald said. “We’re all thankful it’s over.”
“Frankly, you had us worried,” Blair said. “Primary results aside, having that charge of murder hanging over your family’s head would have … well, a lot of rethinking would have been necessary.”
Ewald nodded. “Let’s just say I’m glad rethinking won’t be necessary. You’ve seen the latest poll we commissioned.”
“Yes. Impressive. It was, of course, directed at those groups who are predisposed to support Ken Ewald.”
Ewald laughed. “Has there ever been a candidate-sponsored poll that wasn’t ‘directed’?”
The secretary of the party, a former representative from Missouri, Jacqueline Koshner, said, “Senator, polls aside, we’d be less than honest if we didn’t express certain concerns we have with your candidacy.”
“My son? He’s never been charged with anything.”
“No, unless that flares up again between now and the convention. I’m talking about the irrefutable shift in this country toward a more conservative posture.”
Ewald narrowed his eyes. “What I see is the pendulum swinging back.”
“Maybe,” Blair said, “but Jackie is right. If the pendulum has begun to return to center, it has, in our judgment, a long trip ahead of it. This is now, Ken. If you are the party’s candidate—and it looks as though you have a good shot at it—we feel you’ll need balance on the ticket.”
“Jody?”
“Yes.”
“Impossible. Oil and water.”
“I prefer to see it as sweet and sour,” said Jacqueline Koshner, “the palate being satisfied in all ways.”
Ewald said lightly, “I hope you consider me the sweet in that recipe.” His comment did not generate smiles. He said, “I will not run with Jody Backus.”
Blair glanced at his staff, looked at Ewald, and said, “It’s possible you won’t run at all.”
Ewald’s anger was evident. “You aren’t suggesting that the party … you … would attempt to deny me the nomination, are you?”
“Of course not. If the delegates give you the votes you need, you’ll be our candidate. However, Ken, your candidacy is not without obvious problems. Jacqueline is right. We are still a country that for a long time has gone to the right of center, and that will be the case in November. We want the White House this time around, Ken, and we are not about to let it slip out of our grasp. This is the year. Manning has run his string, and Thornton represents only four more years of the same, or worse. You are extremely popular in some segments, unpopular in others. This thing with your son and the murder of one of your staff members, even though it seems to have been buried for the time being, hasn’t helped. Do you … do you see any other such incidents looming between now and the convention?”
“Another murder that my son will be suspected of committing? No.”
The expression on Blair’s face said that he was not pleased with Ewald’s flippancy. “I think all that’s left to be said at this juncture is that if you win the nomination, the party will support you in every way. But also know that if you are our candidate for president, the choice of your running mate will not be yours to make unilaterally.”
Ewald nodded and stood. “I’ll be happy to confer on my choice of vice-president, but strike Jody from the list.”
The others remained seated as Blair walked Ewald to the foyer. He slapped him on the arm. “Keep one thing in mind, Ken.”
“I’m listening.”
“Backus. Even though he lost to you in a majority of the primaries, he comes into San Francisco with a hell of a lot of clout. It may not be as easy for you as it appears at this moment.”
“Nothing is ever easy, Jack.”
“One last thing between friends.”
“Shoot.”
“Is there anything else, anything that might explode between now and the convention?”
“About me personally?”
“Do you know something I don’t?”
“No, just …”
“Just what?”
“Just rumors. Things good at home?”
“Things are very good at home, Jack. Thanks for the time. I have to meet Leslie to plan the testimonial dinner for me. Looking forward to seeing you there.”
“Yes, it should be a lovely evening. Thanks for coming by.”
Smith arrived at the Watergate suite precisely at five-thirty and was surprised to find Ken there. He and Leslie were alone. “My good luck,” Smith said, “to have both of you here at the same time.”
Ewald shook Smith’s hand. He was obviously not in a pleasant mood. He spoke in short sentences, and the ready smile that endeared him to millions of voters across the country seemed to have been put on a shelf, at least for the moment.
“Look, I know you’re terribly busy, Ken, and I wouldn’t dream of getting in the way of your schedule, but I have some important information to share with you. In fact”—he looked at Leslie—“I think it’s probably best shared with both of you.”
Ewald perched on the arm of a stuffed chair and said, “Go ahead, what is this information?”
Smith filled a glass from a pitcher of orange juice, came to the center of the room, and said, “As I told you on the phone, Ken, we’ve been pursuing this Herbert Greist thing.”
“Who’s we?” Ewald asked gruffly.
“Various people I’ve brought into this, including Annabel, Tony Buffolino, my investigator, and a journalist who’s been doing some pretty serious digging on her own.” Smith’s expression now matched Ewald’s, made to seem all the more serious by dark stubble that had sprouted over the course of the day.
Leslie sat on the chair’s other arm. “Go on, Mac, please.”
Smith said, “I told Ken a little of this on my call from California, but let me fill you in quickly, Leslie.” He told her about Tony having been shot in California, and that Tony had discovered a locked box in Mae Feldman’s apartment but hadn’t had a chance to ascertain its contents because of the intrusion of the two unidentified men. He said to Ewald, “We think that box might have contained material stolen from you.”
Ewald looked nervously at his wife before saying, “You told me about this mysterious box, Mac, and I told you it couldn’t have contained anything stolen from me.”
Smith hesitated, then said, “What you told me, Ken, was that you never kept anything of significant interest in the house, at least from a national-security point of view.”
“I said that because it’s true.”
Leslie asked, “Why are you asking this, Mac?”
“I’m just trying to put all the pieces together, Leslie. Let me continue. Ken, I assume you’ve told Leslie about the blackmail threat from Herbert Greist.”
Ewald displayed his first smile, and directed it at his wife. “No, in the frenzy of everything I forgot to tell lots of people lots of things. Go ahead, Mac, fill her in.”
Smith looked into Leslie’s angry face and told her the salient facts about Greist and his threats. When he was done, she asked, “Who is this Greist? He sounds like a lowlife, a cheap blackmailer.”
“Yes, he probably is those things, Leslie, but he also is probably Andrea Feldman’s father.”
Their mutual silence was palpable.
“How did you find that out?” Ken asked. Before Smith could answer, he added, “Can you prove it? What is this, speculation by this investigator you’ve hired, or some yellow journalism by this reporter? By the way, who is this journalist?”
“Rhonda Harrison, from WRC. She’s not doing this for the station, however. She has an assignment from Washingtonian to do a piece on Feldman. She’s good at her trade. Between Rhonda and Tony, they’ve discovered that Andrea had been receiving sizable amounts of money from an organization known as the Democratic Action Front.”
Leslie’s face registered a lack of recognition at the name. Ken’s face was another matter. Smith waited for him to say something. Before he did, he walked to the window and looked outside. Rain had started to fall, and gusts of wind splashed it over the glass. He turned and said, “Okay, Mac, let’s open this whole thing up. Not that that represents a decision on my part. You’ve already done it.”
“Ken, what’s this about?” Leslie asked.
Ken held up his hands and said, “Relax, Leslie, and you’ll find out. Years ago, when I decided to make a run for president, I started building my base. That involved all the usual activities, lining up financial and political support around the country, seeking high visibility, taking stands on national issues beyond those I had taken before, the textbook approach to getting ready.
“I figured that my opponent would come out of the incumbent administration, which probably meant Raymond Thornton. Thornton would be tough, because the Manning administration has made everything seem hale and hearty in the country, manipulating economic statistics, calling tax raises something else, proclaiming a prosperity that, in reality, is built on a foundation of sand. I figured I ought to know everything I could about Thornton, and started digging.” He laughed without mirth. “Funny, I used investigators, too.”
“You did?” Leslie asked.
Smith looked at her. “You didn’t know any of this, Leslie?”
She shook her head. “Not about investigators looking into Thornton’s life.” She asked her husband, “Did it result in anything worthwhile?”
“Yes, it certainly did. One of the investigators I hired was well connected in Southern California politics. He hooked up with a man named Stuart Lyme. Remember him?”
“Yes, I do,” Smith said. “Stuart Lyme was a leading right-wing figure in California for years, a real back-room power player.”
“You have a good memory, Mac,” Ewald said.
“I also seem to remember that he died under mysterious circumstances, a fall from a window, something like that.”
Ewald said, “He drowned off Baja. It happened shortly after Stuart had delivered to me, through this investigator, a report loaded with political explosives.”
“Why would someone like Lyme, a dyed-in-the-wool conservative, work with you, help you out?”
“Because Stuart’s son had been killed. The crime was never solved, probably because those in power didn’t want it to be solved. Stuart knew his son had died at the hands of Garrett Kane.”
“Kane?” Smith and Leslie said together.
“Yes. Not Kane himself, of course, but members of his inner sanctum. Stuart’s son had become deeply involved in Kane’s ministry. He eventually rose high enough in its structure to know what was really going on, and documented every scrap of it, including Kane’s use of fronts through which to launder money, and to channel it to his pet causes, like Morales’s activities in Panama. There were other fronts and causes, of course, but Panama and Morales have always been Kane’s favorite.
“Lyme’s son broke from Kane. I don’t know why, but he did. He took the material with him. Kane eventually found out and ordered the son murdered. But before the killing could be carried out, Lyme’s son had passed the material to his father.
“At first, Lyme didn’t know what to do with the material. He knew that Kane was close to President Manning, and that Morales was being supported by the president and his national-security people but, as they say, blood runs thicker than water, and Lyme broke from them. That was when he decided to give me the material his son had given him. He had one request, that I use it to put Kane out of business. I’ve sat on it ever since.”
“Why?” Smith asked. “If the material was that damaging, you could have used it to launch a Senate investigation.”
Ewald’s discomfort with the question was evident. He sat up a little straighter and said, “I decided to wait until I really needed it.”
“Which was when you made your run for president.”
“Yes. I didn’t want to waste it in the Senate, where I was already comfortable and secure. I decided I’d use it against Thornton when the time was right.”
“The material Lyme gave you implicates Thornton with Kane and Morales?” Leslie asked.
“In no uncertain terms,” Ewald answered. “Everything was laid out—names, places, people, bank accounts, correspondence, the works. That’s what was stolen from the house.”
“Andrea Feldman?” Leslie asked.
Ewald shrugged. “I suppose so. Who else could it be? It all makes sense now, this business of Andrea receiving money from Kane through this phony organization—what’s it called, Democratic Action Front?”
“Yes,” Smith said.
Leslie asked, “When did you know it was missing, Ken?”
“A while ago.”
“Why didn’t you—”
Ewald cut her off by saying to Smith, “Sure, it all makes sense. Andrea stole it, and if this character Greist is her father, she gave it to him.”
Smith shrugged. “Bear in mind, Ken, that Greist has been connected with Communist causes. I suppose it is possible that Andrea gave it to Greist for him to try and sell back to you, but we think it’s more likely she stole it at DAF’s behest. It might have ended up with Greist, but it probably wasn’t Andrea’s original intention to give it to him.”
Ewald stood and paced the room.
“We have a theory, Ken,” Smith said, “although we have no idea whether it holds water. We think Andrea might have stolen the material for Kane and Thornton, but left it with her mother for safekeeping. Her mother in turn brought in the father. They figured they could get big bucks out of you because you’d pay anything to get it back. Does that play?”
“I suppose,” Ewald said. “Christ, all this would have to happen at such a crucial time.”
“Well,” said Smith, “at least you’ve confirmed that something tangible was stolen from your house.” He was tempted to bring up Roseanna Gateaux. Jim Shevlin’s mention of her had stayed with him. Why was the FBI interested in Gateaux? He decided he would raise the issue when he and Ewald were alone. Otherwise, it would only hurt Leslie and accomplish nothing. He said, “I know you’re both terribly busy and I’ll get out of your hair, but I would like something else cleared up for me. Paul indicated that he’d met Andrea at a party, and that she convinced him to put in a good word with you. Is that true?”
Ewald nodded. “It was obvious to me that Paul was infatuated with her, and that concerned me. I had reservations, but Ed Farmer tipped the scale in her favor.”
“He did? He knew Andrea well enough to make such a judgment?”
“He seemed to. He told me that she would be a real asset to the campaign and urged me to hire her. I did.”
“Paul must have been pleased,” Smith said.
“Yes, too much so. I sensed something was going on between them long before Janet found out. I probably should have followed my gut instincts and not hired her, but with both Paul and Ed in her corner, I went with it.”
He glanced anxiously at Leslie, who’d fixed him in a challenging stare. “Go on, Ken, finish the story for Mac,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Tell Mac how Paul brought Andrea Feldman into the house and the campaign and how … how Daddy ended up sleeping with her.”
Ewald leaped to his feet. “That’s a lie, Leslie! I may have …”
Leslie laughed. “Little too quick with the tongue, Ken. What were you about to say, that you may have slept with others but not with her? Let’s face it, Ken, your overactive glands have led this family into trouble it doesn’t deserve. You had clear sailing to the White House, and look what’s fallen on our son—suspicion of murder. And now you’re being blackmailed because you couldn’t control your libido.”
She looked at Mac, who hadn’t expected this eruption when he brought up Andrea’s name again. He was distinctly and visibly uncomfortable. “Mac,” she asked, “did you happen to see a confrontation I had with a young reporter a week or so ago?”
“The one who asked whether you would be the first divorced First Lady?”
“Yes. She nailed it—which is why I nailed her. We are not a happily married couple, and haven’t been for quite a while. We are Ken and Barbie, but only for the voters. I suppose I really don’t have to tell you this, Mac. You’re astute enough, and have been around long enough, to have picked up on it.”
Smith sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Whether I did or not, Leslie, doesn’t seem to be terribly important. This really isn’t my business.”
“I disagree. I think it is very much your business. You have taken a leave from the university to help us, and if I remember correctly, the rule always was that your attorney must know everything.”
“I’m no one’s attorney, Leslie,” Smith said. “I’m just a friend.” He stood. “I have to leave, but there is another thing I would like to air before I do.” He was happy to have something else to talk about other than their personal problems. “Lots of people presumably had reason to kill—or at least could rationalize killing—Andrea Feldman. If she were double-dealing Kane, he certainly wouldn’t be a fan. Do you think she might have been murdered by someone at Kane’s command, as you say Stuart Lyme’s son was?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Ewald said, still glaring at his wife.
Smith took them both in slowly before asking, “Is there anyone within your circle—family, friends, household staff, campaign staff—who you think might have killed Andrea Feldman?”
“No,” Leslie said without hesitation.
“Ken?” Smith asked.
“No, of course not. It was obviously someone connected with that madman Kane, maybe somebody from Morales’s band of thugs, maybe even the Manning White House.”
There was a knock at the door. Three members of the Watergate’s catering staff had arrived for the meeting. “Come in, please,” Leslie said pleasantly, a large and winning smile on her face, a triumph of muscle control.
“Thanks for your time,” Smith said.
“Are you going home?” Leslie asked.
“No, I think I’ll stop in the suite we’ve taken here in the Watergate. I have some details to take care of.”
She stepped close to him and said, “I don’t know why you’re staying involved, but I am very glad you are.” She kissed his cheek. He looked at Ken over her shoulder and saw a stone face. “I’m staying involved, Leslie, because I want to know what happened. Just that simple. I need to know what happened.”
As Smith left the suite and waited for an elevator to take him to his floor, the young Panamanian sat alone in yet another suite in the Watergate, booked and paid for by the Reverend Garrett Kane. Earlier, Colonel Gilbert Morales had been there. Now, Miguel sat on the couch, a soft drink on the table in front of him. Around the glass were various pieces of metal. He picked up a few and began to assemble them. The Pachmayr Colt Model 1911 modular pistol had been delivered to him earlier in the day by one of Morales’s aides. It had cost four thousand dollars, and could be configured to handle .45, .38 Super, or .9 mm ammunition. This model was set up for .38 Super.
He’d taken the sophisticated weapon apart and put it back together again a number of times. Each time it was fully assembled, he couldn’t help but smile at the feel of it. It weighed only sixty-four ounces. The trigger had a light, crisp pull.
“Bueno,” he said. As he slowly began to take it apart again. “Guapo. Beautiful, beautiful.”