Murder at the Pentagon (32 page)

“Maybe it won’t be,” he said.

She rejoined them at the table. “Go ahead,” she said. “Open it up. Let’s see this mysterious midnight caller to the eminent Dr. Joycelen.”

Buffolino undid the envelope’s clasp, slid his hand inside, slowly removed the paper, and placed it in front of Margit.

“It’s Jeff,” she said flatly.

“Looks that way,” Smith said.

Buffolino said, “Mac told me this was somebody you know, somebody kind of special in your life. I’m sorry.”

Margit looked at Smith. “You seemed to sense at dinner a month ago that Jeff had more of a connection to Joycelen than he was admitting.”

“Right. But he denied it. This might not mean anything, Margit. You mentioned rumors that Joycelen was a whistle-blower to Wishengrad and his committee. If so, it wouldn’t be unusual for Jeff to function as a go-between.”

Margit folded her hands on the table and looked down at them. “I know that, Mac, but I wish he’d been more honest with me.” She sat back. “Is that asking too much, to be honest with someone you wake up next to, someone who says he loves you?”

“In Washington? It often is,” Smith said gruffly.

Margit glanced down at the envelope. Buffolino had scribbled many notes on it, including an address. She said, “That’s Joycelen’s address, isn’t it?”

“Right,” Buffolino said. “Look, I gotta get going. Alicia’s been on the warpath. Women! You marry ’em, they right away put in a time clock, and you gotta punch in and out.” He then realized he had an obligation to see Margit safely back to Bolling and said so.

“No need,” Smith said. “I’d enjoy a ride. Get home and punch in, Tony. You don’t want to be docked.”

“Thanks, Tony,” Margit said.

“My pleasure. I’ll check in with Mac when I get back from New York.”

As Smith walked Buffolino to the door, Margit pulled from her purse the piece of paper she’d taken from Foxboro’s desk. “I knew the address was familiar,” she said when Smith returned, handing the paper to him.

“Another note,” he muttered. “That note from Cobol to
you was upsetting. Believe what he said in it? That he was setup?”

“Yes.”

He examined the paper from Foxboro’s desk. “What do these numbers mean?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Margit said.

“Where did you get this?”

“From Jeff’s desk.”

“Does he know you have it?”

“I assume not, unless he’s looked for it and found it missing.”

Smith frowned.

“What’s wrong?” Margit asked.

“Nothing. Unless …”

“Unless Jeff had something to do with Joycelen’s murder.” The words came out easily. It was no ad-lib; she’d written the line earlier. “I prefer not to have to evaluate that possibility at the moment,” she added. “Is the Smith escort service available? I don’t have a headache yet, but I guarantee one will be arriving any moment.”

A fourteen-piece group culled from the Bolling base band provided music for Saturday night’s “morale booster” at Andrews Officers’ Club. If the success of the swing-era event could be measured by the size of the crowd, it was a resounding triumph. Whether the intended lift in morale was to be sustained beyond the weekend would be evident on Monday.

It was eleven. The dance floor had been full all evening, especially when slower ballads were played. Margit and Jeff were leaving the floor after moving softly and slowly to “Polka Dots and Moonbeams” when the bandleader kicked off a faster tempo, an arrangement of Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood.”

“Game?” Margit asked.

“Sure,” Jeff said.

Margit’s father had been a jitterbugger, and had taught his daughter all the moves. Foxboro was overtly uncomfortable, which only enhanced Margit’s appreciation of his good-natured participation all evening. His movements were wooden, but he was there—her dancing straight man—
content to sway a little and, if nothing else, give her a reference point. And a partner. Despite what passed for much contemporary dancing, it was always nice to have a partner on a dance floor.

Margit’s smooth footwork was the center of attention until Major Anthony Mucci and his date, a pretty blonde who at first glance looked to be in her teens but who at second glance wasn’t, took to the floor. The other dancers stopped and formed a loose circle around them. The major was a superb dancer; the girl was no robot, either. Everyone clapped to the rhythm. When the song ended, it turned to applause.

“That was fun,” Margit said as she and Jeff headed for the last table they’d sat at during the evening. Threading the crowd, Margit saw that Bill Monroney was now seated at the same large table, and that Mucci and his date were about to be. Monroney, who seemed to be stag, had greeted her earlier in the evening, and she’d introduced Jeff to him. When they’d parted after a brief conversation, Foxboro asked about him.

“Just an old friend,” Margit answered. “We were stationed together in Panama.” She knew what had prompted the question. Monroney had an intense way of looking at women. Foxboro had picked up on it, but hadn’t pressed for details.

“Feel like some air?” she asked, having decided to avoid the table.

“I feel like sitting after that workout—yours, I mean.” He took her hand and led her to the table.

After they were seated, Margit said to Mucci, “You’re quite a dancer.”

“Thanks,” he said. His date, whose name was Jill, smiled, pretended to be exhausted, and said, “He wears me out.”

Monroney bought a round of drinks for the table. He said to Margit, “Beautiful dress.”

“Thanks,” she replied. “Left over from the prom.” She wore a shell-pink, almost knee-length cotton piqué dress, scooped low in the front and with a front-to-back portrait collar. Her shoes had been dyed to match. Foxboro, whose
wardrobe consisted primarily of sports jackets and slacks, had dragged a gray suit from the recesses of his closet, one with permanent wrinkles. He might walk the corridors of power, but a power dresser he was not.

The conversation at the table was spirited, and took many turns. At one point a marine captain asked, “Everybody got their desert boots out and ready?”

“You really think Beardsley will order it?” Monroney asked.

“Why not?” the marine said. “Bush didn’t hesitate—and it made him King for a Day.”

“Yeah, but criticizing Desert Storm, and the mess it left, helped Beardsley get into the White House,” Monroney offered.

“Beardsley doesn’t have any choice,” Mucci said. “He knows we’d better get over there before the second bomb goes off, and this time it won’t be a test, or a warning.”

“How do you feel about it, Margit?” Monroney asked.

She shrugged. “He gives the order. We go,” she said.

The rumor that the United States would once again deploy troops to the Middle East had been circulating for weeks. Yesterday, the United Nations Security Council had passed a resolution condemning the detonation of the nuclear device. The resolution went on to demand that any remaining nuclear weapons be identified to a UN commission, and that those weapons be placed under the commission’s irrevocable control.

“You might lose your friend here,” Mucci said to Foxboro, looking at Margit.

Foxboro replied, “They won’t need lawyers in the Middle East.”

“Maybe they won’t need lawyers,” Monroney said, “but they’ll need chopper pilots.”

“And grave-diggers,” said Foxboro.

“Oh,” the marine said. “Do I detect a nonbeliever in the crowd?”

“Jeff is on Senator Wishengrad’s staff,” Monroney said.

“The bane of our existence,” said the marine.

“The voice of reason,” Foxboro said.

“I love all you guys on the Hill,” the marine said, thrusting his jaw in Foxboro’s direction. “You ever put your ass on the line for this country?”

“This is silly,” Margit said.

“No, it’s not,” Foxboro said. “Have I ever been in the service? I haven’t. But you don’t have to lie in mud to know when a pig farmer’s making bad decisions about his stock.”

“You guys make me sick,” the marine said.

“Throw up someplace else,” Foxboro said, his own jaw extending.

Margit was relieved when another officer at the table said, “Aren’t you the major who was defending Dr. Joycelen’s murderer?”

“One and the same.”

“Cobol’s a head case who won’t be missed,” the man said.

Margit looked past him to where her boss, Jim Bellis, and his wife were enjoying seconds from the dessert buffet. A few feet from them was a knot of unaccompanied single officers, including Max Lanning.

Margit had forgotten about Lanning. When she and Jeff had arrived, the first familiar face she’d spotted was Lanning’s, and she’d warmly greeted him, adding, “Max, this is Jeff Foxboro.”

Foxboro had extended his hand. Lanning took it, said, “Excuse me,” and was gone. Margit had looked down at her dress to see whether she’d suddenly displayed a sign warning of contagious disease.

She brought her attention back to the table. Mucci was staring at her.

Foxboro stood, put his hand on Margit’s shoulder, and said, “Be right back.” He headed for the rest rooms.

Monroney said, “Nice young man you have there.” Before she could respond, he added, “Shame he works for Hank Wishengrad. Like breaking bread with the enemy.”

She faced him. “I don’t view it that way. We’re all part of one big country, with the same goals. Americans.”

“Some more than others. You and I should have a talk.”

“Why?”

“Because I think you could use some good advice. By the way, Celia and I are getting a divorce.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Inevitable. A long time in coming. No black or white hats, just a relationship gone sour. Not especially good for the career, but I’m not looking for stars on the shoulders anymore.”

“Why do you think I need advice?”

“Because rumors around the Palace say you’ve been stepping on big, big toes.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said, turning away. When he said nothing, she faced him again. “What rumors?”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about. I won’t bug you, Margit. Call me when you have time, and an open mind. Don’t wait too long.” He smiled. “Have to run,” he said, standing. “Good night, everybody.” His fingertips rested on Margit’s shoulder. He squeezed, and walked away as Foxboro returned to the table.

The band started another slow number. “Dance?” Foxboro asked. “I’m a master.”

She shook her head. “I’m beat. Had enough?”

Foxboro looked at the marine, who’d glowered at him since their exchange. “I’ve had plenty. Ready any time you are.”

“Cinderella’s going home,” Margit announced to the table. “Have to be back here tomorrow at two for a flying date. Good night.”

She made a point of stopping on their way out to say good night to Bellis and his wife, to whom she’d introduced Foxboro earlier in the evening. The colonel smiled and shook Jeff’s hand again. “Tell your boss on the Hill that we’re all in the same game,” he said pleasantly.

Foxboro said, “I think he knows that, Colonel. He just sees the game being won with a different playbook. Nice meeting you.”

“Take good care of this special lady,” Bellis said, smiling at Margit. “I know she’s a good lawyer, hear she’s a hell of
a chopper pilot, and now I’ve seen she’s a world-class dancer.”

“Tonight, I’m a dancer,” Margit said. “Tomorrow, I’m a chopper pilot. And Monday? The law beckons again. Nice life. Good night Mrs. Bellis, Colonel Bellis.”

“Feel like a nightcap? Coffee?” Foxboro asked as they left the parking lot.

“Coffee would be nice,” she said. She’d decided while at the table that she would not wait to bring up what she’d learned about Foxboro’s regular Tuesday night visits to Joycelen’s apartment. She’d also decided to return to him the note she’d taken from his desk. Enough shadows. Time to get everything out in the sunshine.

She’d assumed they’d stop at a late-night spot for coffee, but he headed for Crystal City, evidently intending to serve up coffee at his apartment. Fine. It didn’t matter where, just as long as the setting was conducive to a heart-to-heart.

“Regular or cappuccino?” he asked after they’d arrived.

“Fancy,” she said. “When did you get a cappuccino maker?”

“This morning. It took me a couple of hours to figure it out, but I think I have it down now.”

“Cappuccino, by all means.”

As he worked in the kitchen, she stepped out onto the small terrace. Clouds that had hovered above all day were now far out to sea. The sky was intensely black, the stars distinct. She stood at the railing, identifying constellations to escape the earth, when he came up behind. She wasn’t aware he was there and continued looking up at the heavens until he put his hands on her shoulders and pressed against her.

“You startled me,” she said.

“Jumpy, aren’t you?”

He stepped back. She turned, rested against the railing. “I suppose I am. I have reason to be.”

“Feel like talking about it?”

“I would like that very much.”

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said. “Hopefully with something that approximates cappuccino.”

Sitting in one of two chairs, she opened her purse, and her fingers found the note she’d taken from his desk. Should she start with that, or first mention the sketch Buffolino had provided? That decision was taken from her when Foxboro placed two cups on the table and said, “Here. At least it’s brown and liquid. Before you get into what’s got you uptight, let me ask you a question. Did you take a piece of paper from my desk the last time you were here?”

He knew—she hadn’t expected it. “Yes,” she said, pulling the note from her bag. She handed it to him.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.… You’d left, and I was unhappy. I started looking for a piece of paper to type my note on, and this came up with it. The address looked familiar, but I didn’t know why. So, I took it. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“You knew Joycelen pretty well, didn’t you?” she said.

“I didn’t know the man at all,” Foxboro said.

“Then why a note with his address on it?”

“No reason.”

“Jeff, that doesn’t make sense.” He said nothing. She continued. “Joycelen was providing information to Wishengrad and the committee. Right?”