Murder at the Pentagon (22 page)

Smith took dishes from the table and started to scrape and rinse them. Margit and Annabel moved to help, but he said, “Leave it to me. You two go relax in the living room. I’ll join you in a minute.”

When he entered the room fifteen minutes later, Margit was sitting silently and Annabel had been consoling her. Smith waited for a moment. “You’re between the proverbial rock and a hard place, Margit,” he said. “It’s obvious from what you’ve been saying all evening that you know what you want to do.”

“What’s that?”

“You want to continue investigating Joycelen and Cobol. But if what you say is true about the sense of a cover-up, you’re going to be kept from doing that.
Ordered
not to.”

“I haven’t received that order yet,” Margit said coldly. “I honestly don’t know what I’ll do if I’m told to drop it. All I can think about is something my father repeated to me many times when he was bringing me up.”

Mac and Annabel waited.

Tears formed in Margit’s eyes. “He told me that no matter what I did with my life, I was to make sure I could always live with myself. He told me to never sell out, never be pushed over, never let myself be bought.”

Annabel handed her a Kleenex.

“Would you consider an order to forget Joycelen’s murder and Cobol’s death as ‘selling out’?” Smith asked.

Margit dabbed at her eyes. “Right now—sitting in this living room—I would.”

“Then I’ve got a suggestion. The military can move slowly. They can overlook the obvious. Don’t
say
you’re continuing the investigation if you decide to do so, and don’t hang around asking for orders. Feel like a look at the news?” Smith asked.

“Sure,” Margit said.

They were watching a report about alleged police corruption in Washington when the phone rang. Smith answered, held it out to Margit. “For you.”

“Margit Falk,” she said.

“Major Falk, this is Louise Harrison from
The Washington Post
. The base locator at Bolling gave me this number.”

“You’re calling about Captain Cobol.”

“That’s right. I have some questions for you.”

“Sorry. I have no comment.”

“Just one or two. You were his defense counsel. What was your first thought when you heard the news?”

“My first thought? You mean, was I happy that he’d spared me months of work, and the government a long and costly court-martial?” The reporter tried to refine her question, but Margit forged on. “The fact is, I went to visit Captain Cobol because he asked me to. When I heard what had happened, it sickened me. I am still sick about it.”

Smith came around to where Margit could see him and shook his head. She ignored him.

“Does this mean the case is closed?” the reporter asked.

“I suppose it is.”

“You don’t sound convinced it should be,” Harrison said.

“He’s dead, allegedly because he killed himself.”

“ ‘Allegedly’? Are you questioning that?”

Margit looked at Smith, who was now reinforcing his advice by waving his hands at her.

“I have nothing more to say,” Margit said.

“Could I meet with you?” Harrison asked. “I’d like to follow up on this.”

“No, that would be inappropriate at this time. Thank you for calling.” Margit hung up.

They settled in their chairs again and sat through a few commercials before the story of Cobol’s hanging came on the newscast:

“Army Captain Robert Cobol, the accused murderer of leading scientist Dr. Richard Joycelen back in August, who was shot to death in the basement of the Pentagon, hanged himself in the early morning hours today in his cell at the Fort McNair detention center. Cobol, who’d denied his guilt in the Joycelen murder, and who also denied that he’d had a homosexual relationship with the scientist, used what was described by an army spokesman as a sash of some sort. How that sash ended up in his cell, as well as all aspects of this unfortunate ending to what has been one of this city’s most talked-about murders, will receive a full investigation, according to an army spokesman.”

Margit’s only comment when the segment was over was, “I only hope they got to his mother before she saw it on television. I was going to call her, but I wasn’t sure I should.”

“Maybe she’ll be in touch with you,” Annabel said.

“I hope so.” Margit’s face twisted in anger. “A sash from a bathrobe ending up in a cell with an accused murderer. Nonsense!”

They were interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. Smith glanced at his watch. “I forgot that Tony and Alicia were stopping by,” he said to Annabel. “Tony wanted to drop off a gift.”

As Smith left the living room to answer the door, Annabel said to Margit, “Tony is Tony Buffolino. He was a Washington vice-squad cop until he got trapped in a sting. One of his children was sick, and he was desperate for money. He made one mistake, and that was it. Mac defended him and managed to get criminal charges dropped, but Tony was kicked off the force. He owned a nightclub here in town for a while, is a private investigator at the moment, and, among many things, is a real character.”

Smith led Buffolino and third wife, Alicia, into the room and introduced them to Margit.

“Major?”
Tony said. “A lady soldier, huh?”

“That’s right,” Margit said.

“Every time I turn around, I see women in uniform,” Buffolino said, a wide grin on his craggy pugilist’s face. “They look cute in their uniforms.”

At any other time Margit might have smiled.

“Margit is a helicopter pilot,” Annabel offered.

Alicia’s eyes opened wide. “I didn’t know women flew planes,” she said.

“Lots of us do,” Margit said.

“Sure,” Buffolino said to his wife. “Don’t you remember all those women pilots over there when we were kicking butt in the Persian Gulf?”

“Of course I do, Tony,” Alicia replied, annoyed at his tone. “I just didn’t think they were real. I mean, I never met a real one.”

“Join us for a drink, coffee?” Smith asked the recent arrivals.

“Nah,” Buffolino said. “Thanks. It’s been a long day.”

“We have Grand Marnier cream puffs,” Annabel said. “Fresh from Watergate Pastry.” Buffolino’s penchant for sweets was well known to the Smiths.

Buffolino looked at his wife. “Maybe we stay just a few minutes, huh?”

“Whatever you say, Tony.”

They talked about many things during the next hour, none having to do with Margit’s recent experiences until Buffolino mentioned the Cobol hanging. “How do you figure?” he asked.

“Margit was Captain Cobol’s defense counsel,” Smith said.

Buffolino sprang forward in his chair. “No kiddin’? You’re a pilot
and
a lawyer?”

“I’m afraid so,” Margit replied.

“Sure, I read about it,” Buffolino said. “The guy must have been real guilty, huh, to kill himself?”

“Not necessarily,” Smith said.

“I don’t think so,” Margit said. “Maybe that’s what’s so terrible about this whole thing, that the world will now
assume
that Cobol killed Richard Joycelen, and he’s not here to defend himself.”

“You don’t think he did?” Buffolino asked.

“No, I do not.”

“That raises the usual interesting question,” Buffolino said.

“What’s that?”

“If this guy didn’t kill the scientist, somebody else did. Am I right?” he asked the room.

“That’s a reasonable conclusion,” Smith said.

Alicia Buffolino added, “Sometimes people like that can get nasty and do things when they’re mad.”

“What do you mean?” Margit asked.

“Well, you know, men like that get into a fight with other men like that and sometimes it gets violent. At least that’s what I hear. I really don’t know any—of them. I did in San Francisco but …”

“No different from domestic violence in a heterosexual relationship,” Smith said.

“That’s right,” Buffolino put in. “There’s good ones and bad ones, like everything else.”

“He wasn’t,” Margit said.

“He wasn’t?” Buffolino said.

“Captain Cobol did not have a relationship with Richard Joycelen. Joycelen was not a homosexual.”

“He was married a couple a times. Right?” Buffolino said.

“Right,” Smith said, standing. “Well, now that the cream puffs are gone, I guess Tony will have lost all interest in us, and you two will be getting home.” Annabel looked away from her husband to shield a smile.

The Buffolinos stood and extended their hands to Margit. “It was a real pleasure meeting you,” said Margit.

“Likewise,” Alicia said. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

“Good luck with everything, Major,” Buffolino said.
“Thanks for the snack, Mac. Talk to you soon.” Margit and Annabel heard Buffolino say to Smith when they’d reached the front door, “I almost forgot. Here. The present I got you. Alicia and me went to the shore just to get away, right? We go through this flea market, and I see this. What do I think? I right away think this is perfect for Mac Smith. Didn’t I say that, Alicia?” She agreed. “So I bought it for you.” Smith thanked him, and the front door opened and closed.

Smith returned to the living room carrying a package. “What is it?” Annabel asked. Smith unwrapped it and held up a framed print from a turn-of-the-century magazine. An elephant dressed in a British judge’s white wig and black robes sat behind the bench. Before him were smaller animals—rabbits, birds, cats, and dogs. The caption read,
“Guilty because I say so! Any objections?”

“Is he making a point?” Annabel asked, laughing.

“No,” Smith said. “It was thoughtful of him. We’ll hang it over the bed.”

“Over Rufus’s bed,” Annabel said.

“Which is our bed,” Smith said.

“We must buy him a convertible sofa,” Annabel said.

Rufus, who was asleep on the floor, raised his head at the mention of his name, yawned, and plopped his huge head down with a thud. He’d been sleeping since he discovered that lamb stew was not to be on
his
menu that night.

“Interesting couple,” Margit said.

“Putting it mildly,” said Smith. “Tony met Alicia in San Francisco after I’d made the mistake of getting involved in the murder of that young woman at the Kennedy Center. Remember that case?”

“Sure,” Margit said. “It was in all the papers.”

“Alicia was a cocktail waitress at the Top of the Mark. Tony fell madly in love the first night we had a drink up there, and that was it. After he came back to Washington, he opened what he called a Las Vegas-type nightclub. It bombed. Gambling might have helped. He’s been doing P.I. work since then. He comes off scruffy and dumb, but he’s
no dummy. He’s got the best natural instincts of any investigator I’ve ever known.”

“I suppose he disarms people with his style.”

“Often.”

Margit announced she was about to leave.

“Where’s Jeff?” Smith asked.

“I called him from the office after I spoke with you,” she said. “I suppose I should have gone to him, but I really needed to speak with you, Mac. Jeff understood. You’re both very dear friends. I can’t thank you enough for letting me vent my soul and spleen tonight.”

“Any time,” Smith said. He frowned and looked Margit directly in the eye. “Don’t do anything impetuous,” he said. “Another reporter calls, stick to your ‘No comment’ answer. You said some things on the phone to that
Post
reporter that you might regret. And if you decide to go on with this, call me and tell no one.”

“I know, Mac. I promise to think first and shoot later. Thanks again.”

“Good morning, Major,” Colonel Bellis said as Margit entered his office early Monday morning. “Close the door.” When she was seated, he overtly scrutinized her. “You look beat,” he said.

“I didn’t get much sleep this weekend. What happened to Captain Cobol has been very upsetting.”

“As well it should be. You have time coming to you. Take some and get away from here.”

Bellis wasn’t suggesting anything she hadn’t thought of herself. Yesterday, over coffee with Jeff Foxboro, she’d mused about taking some leave. He’d surprised her again.

She’d told him how upset she was over what had happened with Cobol; that she had trouble buying it; that she felt compelled to seek answers to the questions that nagged at her. She assumed Jeff would be at his pragmatic best, advising her to forget the whole thing and to get on with her life and career. Instead, he was sympathetic and understanding. He
actually urged her to follow her instincts and to be true to herself.

Foxboro had left to attend an afternoon meeting with Senator Wishengrad, leaving Margit to lounge in her Bolling BOQ and to ponder what to do next. Leave was appealing; she could hitch a ride on a military aircraft to a pleasant place, relax on a deserted beach, let sun and water bake and wash away her thoughts and feelings. She wished she had family to whom to turn. This would be a perfect time to go home. But there wasn’t a home anymore, at least not where family waited with open, comforting arms. The air force was her home, Bolling Air Force Base in Washington, D.C., her habitat—at least for now.

“I may do that, sir,” she told Bellis. “Take a few days’ leave. You mentioned that I would return to my previous assignment on Project Safekeep.”

“If that’s what you’d like to do. I can arrange other assignments.”

“Here at the Pentagon?”

“Or someplace else. The kind of shock you’ve just experienced can taint an officer. I’m well aware of that, and I wasn’t kidding when I told you I’d developed a sort of fatherly attitude toward you. You’re the kind of officer, Major, who makes the United States military the best in the world. I wouldn’t want to see you compromise your future.”

His words were nice; what was behind them was troubling. Her response was to say that she’d be happy to stay in place for the moment, and to thank him for his concern.

Bellis said, “I came in here this morning committed to putting Joycelen and Cobol behind us. As unfortunate as the whole incident has been, it seems to have resolved itself, maybe not the way we’d all like to have seen it conclude, but resolved nonetheless. Colonel Detienne and General Paley are planning a press conference tomorrow. That will hopefully put it to rest with the press and the public. At least, I hope so.”