Free Murder at the Kennedy Center by Margaret Truman Page B

in this household, killed Andrea Feldman. Someone must have broken in, or entered the house under false pretenses and walked out with the pistol.”
    Smith sighed and recrossed his legs. “Ken, that is always a possibility, but it is, I’m sure you’ll admit, a farfetched one. The fact is that Riga’s spotlight may sooner or later shine directly on Paul here. As a family friend and unofficial legal adviser who’s had some experience in criminal law, I can tell you the evidence is all circumstantial, but still Paul’s defense, if he has to make one, is pretty shaky. He had access to the weapon, was sleeping with the deceased, had a wife who was furious about it, and can’t account for his—or her—whereabouts.”
    “Then let them charge me,” said Paul, stalking to the door. “I can’t do anything about that.”
    “Don’t leave,” Smith said, pointing his finger at him. “Riga expects the three of you to be here. It’s bad enough that Janet won’t be present. That’s going to take some explaining in itself.”
    “I’ll be upstairs,” Paul said. He closed the door with considerable force.
    Joe Riga was accompanied by two younger detectives. Riga was a tall man with a paunch, who wore his black hair slicked back. He handed his raincoat to Marcia Mims and accepted Leslie Ewald’s offer to make himself comfortable. His assistants, still wearing their coats, took chairs outside the circle that had been formed by Riga, the Ewalds, and Smith.
    “Sorry to take your time, Senator,” Riga said. “I guess running for president must have you on the go.”
    “Yes,” Ewald replied dryly.
    “I’ll try to make this as quick as possible, Senator,” Riga said. He nodded at Leslie and Paul to assure them he had them in mind, too.
    He went through a list of questions, all asked by Smith during his briefing. Riga was a good interviewer, knowing when to respond to keep an answer going, but most of the time showing no reaction to what was being said, just a fewgrunts and “ah-hahs,” like a Freudian listening to a five-times-a-week patient on the couch.
    He asked Leslie to account for her whereabouts at the time of the murder. She said she’d gone to bed following the gala, and assumed none of the household staff would refute that. Riga asked whether any of them could confirm it, rather than just not refute it, and she had to admit they couldn’t. “They don’t tuck me in,” she said rather curtly.
    Riga’s next series of questions was directed at Ken Ewald. When Smith had asked him about his actions following the gala, Ewald had summed them up quickly. Now, in response to the same question asked by Joe Riga, Ewald went into great detail about what he’d done in his office that night, right down to the memos he’d dictated, notes he’d made, and telephone calls he’d placed.
    “We’ll want to see a log of those calls, Senator,” Riga said in a tone that was neither threatening nor suspicious.
    “Of course,” Ewald said. “I’ll see that you get it, although some of them are highly sensitive in regard to my campaign. I’m sure you can understand the need for discretion in how they’re used.”
    “Sure,” Riga said. “You say this agent’s name is Jeroldson?”
    “Yes, Bob Jeroldson. He isn’t assigned to me exclusively, but I seem to end up with him a great deal.” Ewald laughed, and Smith sensed the falseness of it, wondered whether Riga had, too. “Jeroldson is a strange type,” Ewald said, “although I suppose all Secret Service agents are a different breed.”
    “How so?” Riga asked. Smith half smiled to himself; never make a statement unless you’re prepared for a follow-up question.
    Ewald slid over the question like the good politician he was, saying only that Jeroldson seemed to be a brooding, private person.
    “Goes with the job, I think,” Riga said, offering his own less-than-spontaneous smile.
    “I suppose so.”
    A half hour later, after Paul Ewald had responded to all