Murder on the Potomac (21 page)

Annabel’s face had been flushed with animated interest in what her husband was saying. But a sudden sadness crossed it. She went to the bathroom, and he heard the shower come on.

When she emerged from the bathroom wearing her robe and joined him at the kitchen table, he had Pauline’s family history and the copies of the letters spread
out before him. He’d turned on a tiny television set; their household rule was that breakfast was the only meal during which they would watch TV. A male and female news anchor had just finished a roundup of international events and turned to local happenings. Their voices combined into a background drone in the kitchen until they heard the female anchor say,
“Federal agents announced the arrest last night of Sun Ben Cheong, a prominent Washington investment banker and professor of economics at George Washington University. He was arraigned on charges of money laundering and tax evasion. He pleaded not guilty and was freed on two hundred thousand dollars’ bail. Cheong is the adopted son of area developer Wendell Tierney, whose assistant, Pauline Juris, was found murdered a little over a week ago.”

“ ‘When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions,’ ” Smith said grimly. “Not that Wendell was Hamlet or even King Claudius.”

“Mac, can we talk?” Annabel asked, sitting across from him and covering his hands with hers.

“The PR people at the university will love this.”

“That’s not what I want to talk about.”

“Sorry. Go ahead. I’m listening.”

She chose her words carefully and spoke them deliberately. “I don’t know what’s going on, Mac. I do know that Wendell Tierney is attracting trouble, and that he’s attracted you—us—into the middle of it. You were right, of course, in initially responding to his plight as a friend. But now you’ve pieced together significant information that draws you even deeper into it. To do that, you’ve accepted copies of police evidence that were illegally obtained through the bribing of an officer.”
He started to say something, but she stopped him. “Please, let me finish. I know the kind of man you are. I know you thought long and hard before you accepted the envelope from Tony and chose to open it. I also know that even though you say you’re content and happy being a law professor, there’s something in your genes, or maybe a need developed when you were practicing law, that prompts you to get involved. I don’t like it, but I respect it. Maybe it’s even one of the reasons I love you so much. But at the same time I’m frightened.”

“Frightened? That something might happen to me?”

She vigorously shook her head. “No, frightened at what this kind of involvement could do to our marriage.”

His smile was meant to be reassuring. “Annabel,” he said, “I know this sort of thing is upsetting to you, and that it’s happened enough times to make you wonder what I really want and need. Maybe I do chomp at the bit now and then, but I don’t seek out this sort of diversion, if I can call it that. There’s one thing I know for certain. If I ever thought it might ruin this splendid life we’ve forged, I’d never set foot out of the classroom again. Can you believe me when I say that?”

She grinned. “I believe you mean what you say, Mac. I also know you might not be capable of doing it. Look, I’m sorry I feel this way. I don’t mean to be—”

“No, Annabel. You have a right to your fears and feelings. You’re right, although—”

Her brow furrowed. “Although what?”

“Well—frankly, I’ve wondered lately whether you’ve become bored.”

“Bored? Of course I’m not bored.”

“You seem restless, that’s all, and I can’t help but wonder whether I’m the reason.”

“You’re absolutely wrong,” she said.

“Just venting my feelings at this venting session.”

“Don’t even give it a second thought,” she said. “The last thing I am is bored or restless. We’d better get on our way. You’re going to Wendell’s with the letters this morning?”

“Yes. I called him while you were dressing. He sounded utterly defeated when I asked about Cheong, said he’d discuss it with me when I got there. You? What’s on your agenda?”

“Too many things and not nearly enough hours to do them all. I’ll be on the run most of the day, but let’s keep in touch through the machines.”

“Drop you off somewhere?” he asked.

“No need. I’m not quite ready to leave yet.”

As he was almost out the door, he reached in his pocket, turned, and handed her an envelope from a one-hour photo-processing store. “Had these developed yesterday,” he said. “A bunch of shots that were in the camera for weeks. I finished up the roll when I went out on the river with Tony.”

When he was gone, Annabel poured herself a fresh cup of Mac’s great coffee and sat at the kitchen table. A game show was on the TV, and she snapped it off. She needed no TV prizes. A wash of well-being spread over her. How lucky I am, she thought, having Mackensie Smith as my husband. How very lucky. She glanced at the wall clock. Time to be going. She opened the envelope of processed pictures, thumbed through them,
laughed at the shots of Buffolino posing in front of the sleek boat, returned them to the envelope, and placed it in her purse.

The Next Morning—Friday

Darcy Eikenberg heard about Sun Ben Cheong’s arrest on her clock radio at home. Seething, she picked up the phone and attempted to reach Joe Horton. The chief of detectives wasn’t available, and she was told to try again later that morning.

She carried her anger with her as she headed for the National Building Museum to follow up on what her detectives had learned about the Canon battery-powered typewriter on which the Tierney letters were evidently written.

“Where was the typewriter usually kept?” she asked Marge Wills, Joe Chester’s secretary.

“As I told the other detectives, it was always kept in the pension commissioner’s suite.”

“Just left there? For anyone to take?”

“Locked up in the kitchen off the suite,” Wills replied. She was a slight, older woman with gray hair, a tiny mouth, and a ferocious tic in her left eye.

“Visitors to the museum would not have had the opportunity to take it?”

“That’s right.”

“What about staff? Who used it?” Eikenberg realized her abrupt direct questions were flustering her subject. She smiled and said softly, “Only a few more questions. I promise.”

“No, go on,” Marge replied, rearranging papers on her desk that did not need to be rearranged.

“I was saying that the staff must have made use of this particular typewriter. Is that correct?”

“Oh, yes. It’s sort of a—what do you call it?—a running joke here at the museum. Whenever anyone needed a typewriter at home, they took it with them.”

“Did they have to sign it out?”

“Most times, although I suppose some didn’t bother now and then.”

“Do you have a log that was used whenever someone took the typewriter home?”

She rummaged through a drawer, pulled out a small blue notebook with spiral binding, and handed it to the detective, who thumbed through it. Notes were handwritten on each page:
Pauline—November 6. Mr. Chester—December 16. Gil Ellis—July 7
, and so on.

“Is this your handwriting?” Eikenberg asked.

Marge nodded and once again shuffled papers, putting them back into their original position.

Eikenberg continued to go through the book until reaching pages for the month preceding Pauline Juris’s
murder. Four or five names appeared; Joe Chester and Pauline Juris were most frequently mentioned.

“Did Mr. Tierney ever check out the typewriter?”

“Oh, no,” Marge said, chuckling. “I doubt if he even knows how to type.”

Eikenberg smiled.

“He has computers and typewriters all over his house. At least that’s what I understand. He’s quite a gadget fan.”

“But he can’t use them,” Eikenberg said.

“Men in Mr. Tierney’s position don’t have to know how to use them,” she said. “Others do.” It was a statement of simple fact, no judgment intended.

“Why would people take the typewriter home with them?”

Marge started to answer, but Eikenberg continued. “I mean, just about everyone owns a typewriter. Why the need to take this one?”

Marge sighed; her expression said she was trying to dredge up an acceptable answer. She finally replied, “Mr. Chester says he likes to use it outdoors. It’s battery-powered, you know.”

“Yes. I’m aware of that. What about Pauline?”

“She was always complaining about the typewriter she had at home. Said it was filled with gremlins who came out at the worst times. Besides, I remember her saying she liked how quiet it was. It doesn’t make noise when it prints.”

“Good reason, with all the noise these days.” Marge nodded. “These other people in the book. Who are they, and what do they do?”

Marge took a few minutes to go through the notebook, stopping at names and explaining their function at
the museum. Eikenberg took notes. When Marge was finished reading off names, she started to put the book back in the drawer, but Eikenberg said, “I’ll have to take that.” The secretary, who’d visibly relaxed since the interview began, now tensed. Handing over the pad filled with her writing, as evidence in a murder case, unnerved her. “This wouldn’t be evidence, Detective. I mean, it’s only—”

A reassuring smile from Eikenberg. “Just routine, Marge. We gather up everything we can. Most of it has no value, but we have to do it. Procedure.”

Eikenberg stood and extended her hand across the desk. Marge took it tentatively and pulled back quickly. “You say you never saw Wendell Tierney take the typewriter?”

“No, I never did.”

“Ever notice him using it while at the museum?”

“He—”

“Right,” said Eikenberg. “He couldn’t type. But just to write a note, make a list?”

A thoughtful pause. “No.”

“Well, thanks so much for all your help this morning. I really appreciate allowing me to barge in on a busy day.”

“That’s quite all right,” Marge said. “I hope you find who killed Ms. Juris. She was a nice person. Very bright.”

“I’m glad you felt that way. Did everyone?”

“Did everyone—like her? I suppose not. Pauline could be direct. Hard, maybe, is a better way to put it. Some people were rubbed the wrong way by her. But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t nice.”

“Of course it doesn’t.”

Darcy left the office, went to her car, and called Homicide. “Is Joe there?” she asked.

“Yes. He said he’d see you anytime this morning.”

“I’m heading in now,” Eikenberg said.

Horton was on the phone when Darcy entered his office. He glanced up, motioned for her to sit, and continued his conversation, which, Eikenberg soon judged, was with D.C.’s police commissioner.

“… you can count on it,” Horton said. “We’ll pull out all the stops.… Of course. I’ll get back to you this afternoon.”

“Good morning, Joe,” Eikenberg said, without much good in her voice, when he hung up.

“Good morning to you,” Horton responded. “Where have you been?”

“The National Building Museum trying to find out more about the typewriter the Tierney letters were written on. I heard on
my radio
about Cheong being arrested. Why the hell wasn’t I informed about it? Jesus, Joe, Cheong is very much a part of the Juris case.”

“Complain to the feds. They took him last night when he got off a plane from the Cayman Islands. Money laundering. Tax evasion. What did you find out?”

“What?”

“At the museum. The typewriter.”

“Wait a minute. I still would like an answer about Cheong.”

“But you won’t get it from me. Come on, Darcy, get off it. Nothing new about it. Strictly jurisdiction. The typewriter. What did you find out?”

“All right. Not much. It seems everybody on the staff used it at one time or another. Juris took it home on a
regular basis. So did Joe Chester, the director. According to Chester’s secretary, Wendell Tierney never took it, only she’s dealing from never having
seen
him take it, which doesn’t mean he didn’t.”

Horton sat back and laced his hands behind his head. “Maybe he didn’t write them.”

“I think he did.”

“But what if he didn’t? That means somebody else wrote them for one of two reasons—either to cause him problems at home, maybe blackmail him—or turn him into a prime murder suspect.”

“Or both,” Darcy added. “Until somebody proves to me he didn’t write them, I’m assuming he did.”

He slid a file folder across his desk. In it was the lab report on soil found in the rental car Pauline Juris’s former husband, Dr. Lucas Wharton, had rented the night of her murder. Nothing taken from the car matched soil samples from Roosevelt Island’s riverbank.

“I was hoping there would be a match,” Eikenberg said. “Disappointing, but it doesn’t rule him out. It was a shot. Chances are better anyway that whoever did it dumped her from the pedestrian walkway, or floated her in from a boat.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t rule him out. It doesn’t rule him
in
, either. Look, Darcy, I just got off the phone with the commissioner. He got a call from one of Tierney’s lawyers who’s threatening to sue the department and the city for having leaked the letters. He also got a call from an attorney in New York who represents Lucas Wharton. He’s threatening the same thing, only for different reasons. He says that the daily slandering of his client in the press is adversely affecting the doc’s practice.
The commissioner hasn’t taken kindly to either call. He wants us to wrap this up as soon as possible.”

Eikenberg’s laugh was rueful. “Yes, sir, we should have a confession by sundown.”

“Don’t pull my string, Darcy. Let’s just get the job done. Read this.”

Another file folder came her way. In it was a transcript of the latest round of questioning of Dr. Wharton. It wasn’t a verbatim transcript. The conversation had taken place between a detective and Wharton when the doctor was back in Washington regarding the examination of the rental car. The detective noted that Wharton was angry with his ex-wife and made no bones about it. He told the detective that she’d bought the land they owned jointly from him for ten thousand dollars and had signed the papers the night she was murdered. According to Wharton, Pauline purchased his share after having already bought the valuable adjacent parcel, which enhanced the package’s value tenfold. She’d paid $150,000 for the adjoining tract.