Free Murder at the Kennedy Center by Margaret Truman

Baltimore.”
    “Yes, I heard that, too. Funny, somebody else asked about him recently, too. Good man, Tony.”
    “Matter of opinion. Maybe we can catch a drink after we leave Ewald. My treat.”
    “I’m not sure I’ll have time, Joe—I’m meeting Annabel for dinner—but let’s play it by ear. You’re buying? I like that, and if we don’t get to do it tonight, I’ll remind you of it on a regular basis.”
    Smith hung up, stretched out on a couch in his living room, and for the moment thought of Anthony Buffolino, one of his last clients as a practicing criminal attorney.
    Tony Buffolino had been a Washington MPD detective, a good one, everybody said. He’d had a clean record for fifteen years, a drawerful of citations of merit, letters from appreciative citizens and local politicians, no hint of being on the take, a good cop. Then, after taking three slugs in his right leg—two in the thigh and one in the knee—in a shootout during a bank robbery, he was told he was being retired on full pay. That wasn’t what he had in mind. He fought being pensioned off despite constant jibes from fellow officers who dreamed of such a situation for themselves, and despite the pleas of his second wife, who hated seeing her husband leave home each morning and never knowing whether he’d return. He went through extensive physical rehabilitation, passed the physical, and continued on the force as a detective assigned to a special unit formed to combat Washington’s growing drug trade. That was when all the trouble started, personal and professional.
    Smith got up after ten minutes on the couch, shaved, and drove to the Ewald house. He wanted to get there before Riga.
    He had trouble reaching the front gate because of the number of vehicles parked outside the house. There weremobile vans from local television stations, automobiles belonging to a variety of reporters, and two MPD squad cars, their uniformed occupants seated glumly inside them. He was passed through the gate by a private security guard. As he drove up in front of the house, he noticed that the video surveillance camera was in place up on the portico.
    Marcia Mims, the Ewalds’ head housekeeper, escorted him to the study. “I’m early, Marcia,” Smith said. “Any problem?”
    “They’re upstairs, Mr. Smith. We’ve nothin’ but problems. But not you. I’ll tell them you’re here.”
    A few minutes later, Leslie Ewald came to the study. Her eyes were puffy; she’d been crying.
    “I came early, Leslie, because Detective Riga told me he had an appointment with you and Ken this afternoon.”
    Her response was to press her lips together, cross the room to a desk, and lean heavily on it with both hands. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she said in a low voice.
    Smith came up behind her. “It’s a dreadful thing, Leslie, this suspicion, but it’s not yet an accusation, and you and Ken will see it through.”
    She turned and looked into his eyes. “Mac, things are moving so fast.”
    They sat in facing chairs. “Obviously, Leslie, the police have to talk to everyone who could possibly have knowledge about what happened to Andrea. Even if the weapon weren’t involved, the fact that she was on Ken’s staff would be sufficient reason to have detectives talk to him. Have you spoken with Paul?”
    “Of course. He’s upstairs with Ken. They’ve been arguing all afternoon.”
    “About what, or is that none of my business?”
    “To me, it’s very much your business, Mac, and I’m personally deeply grateful that you’re here. Janet has disappeared.”
    “When did you find that out?” Smith asked.
    “This morning. Paul said she packed a bag and left.”
    “I see,” Smith said. “Any idea where she might have gone?”
    “None whatsoever. Janet is … well, to be kind, Janetis not the most rational of women, especially when the pressure is on.”
    “You mean …?”
    “Yes, I mean Paul’s affair with Andrea, and the fact that he never