Special Agent Simmons came to the Waldorf the next morning and took a deposition from Buffolino. He thanked Smith for his help in setting up Herbert Greist, and told him they’d keep in touch.
The three of them caught an early shuttle to Washington. The hired car dropped Annabel off at her home, and took Smith and Buffolino to the Watergate.
“What’s that you’re humming?” Buffolino asked as he and Smith waited for the elevator.
Smith smiled. “I didn’t realize I was humming anything. It’s ‘Celeste Aida’ from Verdi’s Aida.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Yes, it’s a love song, one of my favorites.”
“Yeah, nice. I was learnin’ to like opera.”
They stepped out on their floor. Directly in front of them was a large mirror over a marble-topped table. A bouquet of red and yellow fresh flowers dominated it. A young man, who’d been standing by the table, quickly turned his back to them and examined the flowers.
“That guy don’t smell right to me,” Buffolino said as they walked down the hall.
“I didn’t notice,” said Smith. “He might be part of the hotel security staff.”
Smith called Ken Ewald at home and was told by a secretary he’d be back in two hours. He hung up and said to Tony, “With Greist out of the way, I’d say we’re getting close to winding things up.”
“Yeah, maybe, except we still got to find Janet Ewald.”
“Yes, that’s true, and Marcia Mims, too. Why don’t you get on the phone and see what you can accomplish. I’m going back to the house. See you at four.”
In a motel room in Miami Beach, Florida, Janet Ewald sat alone. It was a small motel that catered to young people; signs outside heralded free drinks for women between 4:00 and 7:00 P.M., wet T-shirt contests on Wednesday nights, and chug-a-lug competitions every Friday. The fierce Florida sun threatened to burn through purple drapes Janet had drawn tightly across the window. The television set was on but without sound. A game show was in progress.
She sat in a purple vinyl chair, her arms tightly wrapped around herself; she was wearing a cardigan sweater because the blast of the air conditioner, even turned low, chilled her. She rocked forward and back. The chair was stationary; she created the rocking motion with her own body. She continued moving until a painful whine from deep inside came through her lips and nose and caused her to violently throw her head forward, then back against the chair.
She looked across the bed at a table and a white telephone. She’d reached for that phone many times since arriving at the motel the previous afternoon, had actually picked up the receiver on occasion, but never dialed.
Standing unsteadily, she went around the bed, sat on it, and read the instructions about how to dial. She was confused by them. She opened her purse, removed a small address book, slowly turned its pages until coming to the C section, and squinted at the handwritten number next to Geoffrey Collins’s name. She dialed.
“Dr. Collins’s office,” his receptionist said.
The sound of a voice on the other end startled Janet.
“Hello, Dr. Collins’s office.”
“Hello. This is … this is Janet Ewald.”
“Oh, Mrs. Ewald. Where are you calling from?”
The question threw her. Did the receptionist know she’d been missing? Could she trust her? Could she trust anyone?
“Mrs. Ewald?”
“Yes … is the doctor in?”
“Yes, he’s in session, but … please hold on.”
A few moments later, Collins came on the line. “Janet, how are you? Everyone has been worried about you.”
“Yes, I know they have. Dr. Collins, I …”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, no … Oh, Doctor, I just want to die.”
“Why would you want to do that, Janet? You’re young. Nothing can be so bad that we need death to resolve it.”
“You don’t understand. I know so much … I know things … I’m afraid.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Florida.”
Collins’s laugh was professional. “I wish I were there. Is the weather good?”
“Yes, very nice …”
“Janet, will you come back, come directly to me? Surely, you’re not afraid of me. I’ve always been your friend, and I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”
She was silent.
“Janet. Are you there?”
“Yes. I know I should come back. I have to talk to someone. I talked to Mr. Smith, but then I got scared again and ran away.”
“Mr. Smith?”
“Mackensie Smith, my father-in-law’s friend.”
“Oh, Mac Smith. Why don’t you come back and let the two of us help you through this?”
“All right. I mean, I might.”
“Here’s what I suggest, Janet. Enjoy the sun, have a good rest tonight, and take a plane first thing tomorrow morning. Call now and make a reservation. When you get to Washington, come directly to my office. Call and let me know what time you’ll be here.”
“All right.”
“Do you want me to call Mac Smith?”
“No, that’s—yes, call him. I trust him. I trust you.” She hung up.
Smith returned to the Watergate at four and asked Buffolino, “How’s the leg?”
“Pretty good. What are you up to tonight?”
“Annabel and I promised Ken Ewald that we’d attend a fund-raiser tonight at the Four Seasons Hotel. The arts crowd is throwing a party for him.”
“Should be fun. I’ll come along.”
“No, you stay here and rest. After what you went through in New York, you could use a little relaxation.”
“I don’t know how to relax. Hey, Mac, let me ask you a straight question.”
“What is it?”
“Are we gonna stay on this thing for a while? I mean, if this job is about to end, I’d better start making some plans.”
“To be honest with you, Tony, I don’t know how much longer we’ll stay involved. Outside circumstances will determine that, I suppose. In the meantime, don’t worry about it. You’re still on the payroll, and I’ll give you plenty of notice. Fair enough?”
Buffolino grinned. “You’re always fair, Mac. Thanks.”
Before leaving the suite, Smith dialed his answering machine at home. There was an urgent message from Dr. Geoffrey Collins. Smith returned the call.
“Good to hear your voice again, Mac,” Collins said. “It’s been a while.”
“Good to hear you, too, Geof. I got your message. What’s up?”
“I just got off the phone with Janet Ewald.”
“You did? Where is she?”
“She said she was in Florida. I think I’ve convinced her to fly back here tomorrow morning and to come to my office. She mentioned she’d seen you, and when I asked whether she wanted me to call you, she said she did.”
“This is good news, Geof. Do you think she’ll actually show up?”
“I have no idea, but I would like you to be here if she does.”
“Of course. Keep me informed, call anytime.”
Smith said to Tony Buffolino, “That was the psychiatrist who’s treated Janet Ewald. She called him from Florida and said she’s coming back tomorrow. I’d just as soon she return of her own volition, but I don’t have much faith in that. Can you put out some tracers in Florida? Let’s assume she’s in the Miami area, although she could be anywhere in the state.”
“Sure. I got a friend in the airlines who owes me. They don’t give out passenger manifests, but he’s broken that rule for me a couple a’ times. If she used her own name, I can get it. I’ll give Joe Riga a call, too, and see if his pals can come up with something.”
“Good. I’ll check back in with you after the party.”
Smith and Annabel went to a suite in the Georgetown Four Seasons where a cocktail reception for Ken and Leslie Ewald was in progress. This was a smaller gathering of a half-dozen movers-and-shakers in Washington’s artistic community. A hundred lesser lights would be downstairs later.
“Any prepared remarks for me?” Ewald asked Ed Farmer.
“Prepared remarks for these people? All they want to do is shake your hand and hear you tell them how much their support means to you. Your Senate record on funding the arts makes you a hero to them. Just play hero.” Smith smiled at Farmer’s comment, although the campaign manager had delivered it, as usual, without any levity of tone. Farmer frowned at Smith and walked away.
Ewald and his entourage went downstairs to the larger affair where Smith and Annabel were introduced to a few people at the door, then drifted to a corner to watch Ewald work the room. Smith had considered telling Ken and Leslie about the possible return of Janet, but thought better of it. Wait for a quiet moment, when no one had to be onstage.
It was just another party until Ed Farmer captured the attention of most of the people by saying in a loud voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, I know the next president of the United States, Ken Ewald, would like to say a few words.”
The whoops and hollers rose to a crescendo, and then died as Ewald said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I can say honestly to you that I’ve been to a lot of rubber-chicken-and-rice dinners. I’ve shared times like this with hundreds of thousands of people in many states, and will have to do the same in the months ahead, but never have I enjoyed an hour more than this.” Applause. Ewald’s hands held high in the air, Leslie beaming at his side. “As I stand here, what keeps running through my mind is the adage that many of you, especially in theater, live by. ‘The show must go on.’ This campaign—this show we are in the process of producing—has run into many out-of-town trials and tribulations. We’ve had to rewrite as we went, change scenes, juggle adversity—to say nothing of unexpected and unhappy surprises—but here we are ready for the convention, and I can tell you that this show is now ready for a long run, thanks to creative, caring people like you.”
Smith looked at Annabel and smiled. “Prepared remarks?” he said. “He’s better on his feet.”
Ewald continued. “We took some battering a while back because of circumstances beyond our control. Now we have control again, and everyone in this room who cares about the cultural aspects of this society we share can rest assured that not only do I intend to win the Democratic nomination in July, I intend to become the next president of these United States. And as president, I will do everything in my power to help shift this society from one of hate and prejudice and misunderstanding to one in which the beautiful music can be heard once again, the magnificent words of our writers and poets can be heard, and the gentler aspirations that a society rich in culture fosters will be with us for at least four years and, hopefully, far into the future.” He waited until the applause had ebbed, and concluded with, “This beautiful woman at my side has been my inspiration throughout the difficulties of this campaign. My main opponent is a gentleman with whom I’ve served for many years in the Senate. Senator Backus is a good man who loves this country as much as I do. The difference is that in an administration such as we now have in Washington, there is no room for beauty and culture, because most of the attention and most of the money are focused on destructive things. Don’t misunderstand. We must have a strong and secure nation in order for the beautiful things to grow, to blossom, but there must be something else in a society if it is to be judged generations from now as one of compassion and love. Senator Backus represents an anachronistic view of how we take America and move it forward into the light, rather than into the shadows. What more can I say, except to say thank you from me and from Leslie and from every man and woman who has worked so hard to see their dreams—and your dreams—become reality once again. When November eighth is over, I promise you one thing … we will all gather again, only this time it will be in the White House, and we will raise a toast to the future of this free industrial, agricultural, commercial, and cultural giant … the United States of America!”
Many of those in the room tried to reach Ewald as he and Leslie made their way to the door, preceded by Farmer and Secret Service agents. Mac and Annabel didn’t try to catch up with them. They lingered, watched, and, once the Ewalds and official followers were out of the room, made their own way to the lobby.
“What do you think?” she asked.
Smith shrugged. “I have my reservations about Ken, but I keep coming back to the conviction that he’s a hell of a lot better than the alternative. Yes, I’d like to see him in the White House. I think some good things must come out of it.”
When they returned to the Watergate suite, Buffolino told them that his airline friend found no passenger between Washington and Miami by the name of Janet Ewald. “Funny thing, though,” he added. “Riga called me. His people have been checking manifests, too, and he said they ran across a passenger flying to Miami from D.C. by the name of Andrea Feldman.”
Smith said, “The Andrea Feldman we know isn’t taking trips anywhere these days.”
“Yeah. Kind of spooky though, huh?”
“Try checking it through,” Smith said.
Annabel turned on the TV. Buffolino said, “I think I’ll go downstairs and get a drink. I’m getting cabin fever here.”
Buffolino went to the lobby, which was bustling with well-dressed people—a typical Watergate crowd, he thought. There was a group of Japanese tourists, a familiar sight in every city in America. An aristocratic couple with regal bearing waited at the elevator, he in a tuxedo, she in a floor-length ball gown bursting with sequins. He then saw the same slender, nicely dressed Hispanic young man they’d seen on their floor earlier in the day. He thought of Smith’s comment, that he was probably a member of hotel security, and decided Smith was right. He acted like a plainclothes security guy, his eyes taking in everything and everyone. Still, Tony didn’t like it. Then again, all Hispanics made him uneasy since the night he’d been set up by Garcia. He had to admit that, and he did as he went to the bar and enjoyed a leisurely drink by himself. I hope this booze goes right to my thigh, he thought; it’s killing me.