Murder on the Potomac (13 page)

And so she climbed the three short steps to the stage, went to its center, and looked down at him.

He smiled. “And how is Ms. Tierney this fine day?” he asked.

“Fine, Arthur. I’m fine. I flew in this morning.”

“On Daddy’s private jet?”

Her face turned red. Embarrassment. Anger. She said, “No. On the shuttle like everyone else.”

He quietly clapped his hands. “How plebeian,” he said. “And how are your rich mother and father?”

She looked left and right, fists clenched at her side. Finally, she came to the stage apron and asked, “Why do you keep bringing up my family? I am here to learn acting. I wish to be a good actress, that’s all. Why do you harp upon my background? I can’t help where I came from. I only know where I am and where I want to go.”

He clapped a little louder. “Breaking the chains that bind you?” he said, eyebrows arched inhumanly high. “You seem agitated, Suzanne. Trouble at home?”

She drew a deep breath and shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans. After looking at the floor for a moment, she brought her head up and said, “Yes, I am angry.”

“Good,” he said. “Can you inject that anger into the scene you’ve prepared for us?”

“I think so.”

Saul leaped to his feet and came to the apron. “Finally, Suzanne, you might have gotten what it is I’ve been preaching all these months. You have anger
inside
you. You have love, sympathy, bewilderment. But it’s all worthless if it remains inside. You wish to act, to assume the role of a character created by a mad artist in a garret. He creates a character who is angry. At what? Politics? His wife? World hunger, surly waitresses, his mother and father? Can you take your anger—and I have no doubt it is directed at your rich and overbearing parents—and bring it to another person, another character?”

She replied simply, “I would like to do a scene from
Glass Menagerie
.”

“Splendid,” Saul said. He turned to face the others. “I ask that you give your undivided attention to Ms. Tierney,
who obviously has flown here from our nation’s capital seething with hatred and disgust for her privileged lifestyle and those who created it for her. How fortunate we are to see this metamorphosis from little rich girl to waif.” To Suzanne: “I salivate with anticipation.”

Suzanne stumbled through the scene. She couldn’t control her nerves; her hands trembled, her voice quavered. Saul and the students were silent. Some winced and squirmed in sympathy. Others took pleasure in her pain. When she finished the scene, a few in the audience applauded. Saul did not join them. He slowly climbed onto the stage and stood next to Suzanne, looking at her with a patronizing smile. “You hate them, don’t you?” he said softly.

She looked at him in a puzzled way.

“You hate your parents. If you could only channel more of that hatred into a performance, you might actually succeed in becoming an actress.”

All the emotions boiling inside of her that she’d kept from spilling over now gushed out in a torrent of tears. She wrapped her arms about herself.

Saul put his arm over her shoulder and pulled her close. He said to his assistant, “Rehearse the improvisational pairs until I return.” He led Suzanne from the stage, out of the room, and to his office, where he closed the door, sat on a small leather couch, and patted the empty space next to him. “Come, sit.”

She did. His arm went over her shoulder, and he said in soothing tones, “I know you think I’m too hard on you, Suzanne, but I must be if you are ever to realize your true potential as an actress. I want you to be angry. I want you to cry.”

Her crying was now reduced to an occasional whimper. Her eyes were red; a large tear streaked one cheek.

“I also told you last time that it’s necessary for me to establish control in front of the others. I also don’t want them to think I’m showing favoritism—to one of my best students, someone who will achieve stardom one day but only if she continues to work with me. To listen to me. To believe in me.”

She looked into his face with pleading, vulnerable eyes. “You say that all the time, Arthur, but then you’re so cruel.”

“And you are so talented—and so lazy. And so lovely. Trust me, Suzanne. I know how to bring out the best in you.”

He stood, locked the door, and unbuttoned his shirt.

Suzanne did not return to the theater where the other students were being put through their paces. She walked up Broadway, stopped to admire a pair of shoes in a window, bought them, tossed her purchase into the large, empty canvas bag and continued uptown. She picked up a Greek salad from a take-out place and went to the newly renovated Bryant Park, where she ate her leafy lunch. She checked her watch: one-thirty. Just enough time.

She walked farther until reaching a tall office building. In front of it were low marble walls and planters where people sat enjoying the sunshine. Suzanne stood at the corner and waited. A lean young Hispanic man carrying a large package wrapped in brown paper and secured with string entered the corporate courtyard. He sat. Suzanne made eye contact briefly. He waited thirty
seconds, then walked away, leaving the package on the edge of a planter.

Suzanne moved to where he’d been sitting and observed those around her. No one seemed to have noticed. She placed the package in the large canvas bag and zippered it shut.

An hour later she was on a shuttle back to Washington, the bag securely wedged beneath the seat in front of her.

10:00
A.M.
That Same Morning

Tony Buffolino was waiting when Smith pulled into the gravel courtyard at the rear of Tierney’s house. He’d abandoned his yachting uniform of Saturday for black slacks, a heavy knit olive-green sweater that might have been snatched from a U-boat commander, and a black beret frequently seen on paratroopers.

“Glad you could make it, Mac.”

“What are we going on, a commando raid?”

“When the man hires me for security work, I want to look like security. Makes him feel … well, more secure.”

“Nice day for a ride on the river,” Smith said.

Buffolino led them to the front of the house and down the long set of wooden stairs to the Tierney dock where the four vessels—the
Marilyn
, the Aquasport
utility boat, the bass boat, and
M.O.R.
, the sleek red-and-white Cigarette racing craft—bobbed gently, a small flotilla.

“Are we taking the yacht?” Smith said smiling.

Buffolino did a double-take. “Don’t think I could handle it?” he asked.

“Just kidding, Tony. Besides, you’re not dressed for it. What
are
we taking?”

“The Aquasport.” Buffolino pointed to the twenty-two-foot, center-console craft rigged with canvas to provide shelter.

“Pretty snazzy,” Smith said, indicating the Cigarette.

“Ain’t that a beauty?” Buffolino said, shaking his head in awe. “Do a hundred wide open.”

“The Aquasport will be fine.”

Buffolino noticed a small point-and-shoot camera hanging from a strap around Smith’s neck. “You taking up photography?” he asked.

Smith thought of an obvious wisecrack, said instead, “I thought I might snap a few.” He raised the camera to eye level. “Let me get one of you, Captain.”

Buffolino grinned. “Sure.” He started toward the Aquasport, but Smith suggested he stand in front of the Cigarette. “More befitting your soldier-of-fortune look,” he said.

“I probably look more like there was a sale at the army-navy store.” Buffolino posed, and Smith pressed off three shots. They climbed into the boat, and Tony started the larger of two outboards attached to the transom. He neatly coiled the mooring lines inside the boat, then steered it away from the dock and out into the center of the river. Smith stood next to him at the console and drew a deep breath. He was glad he’d decided to
take Tony up on his offer. Although he hadn’t been especially busy these past few weeks, he’d been busy thinking about being busy. So it felt good to be away from such burdensome thoughts, from daily routine, from the classroom and the grading of papers at home, from anything that might be considered a typical day. Buffolino glanced over and smiled. “Nice, huh?”

“Better than that,” Smith replied. “You look like you’re enjoying this assignment.”

“Hell, yes, only Alicia isn’t happy. Tierney wanted me to move in, so I did. She figures I’m out messing around, which is the way I guess women always figure. But she should know me better than that. Right?”

“Right, Tony.”

Tony advanced the throttle. “Want to take it?” he asked.

“Sure,” Smith said, pulling his GW windbreaker around him as the boat’s increased speed created a parallel pickup in the wind.

“Just keep us going in this direction,” Tony said. While Smith held course, Buffolino pulled out a nautical chart and studied it.

“Where are we heading?” Smith asked, raising his voice over the wind’s whistle.

“I figured maybe we’d go by Roosevelt Island. Interested?”

Smith nodded. Somehow he knew that would be on their itinerary.

Tony laid the chart on the console, and they rode without speaking until reaching the Key Bridge. The island was visible beyond it. He pointed to an area of water on the chart between the island and the mainland, spanned by the pedestrian bridge. Smith noticed that the
section of the map under Tony’s index finger was blue. The deeper channel that ran the other side of the island was white. Numbers in the white section indicated considerable depth.
FOUL
was printed on the blue side.

“Yeah, real shallow, Mac, but this baby rides high in the water. I think we can inch in close enough to take a look. Game?”

“You’re the captain, my friend. But, remember, this isn’t your boat. It belongs to Tierney.”

“Not to worry,” Tony said, placing his hand on the throttle and pulling it back to barely above Idle. With just enough rpms to maneuver, they drifted beneath the bridge. Buffolino gently turned right, his eyes shifting between the chart and the water ahead of them.

“You sure this is a good idea?” Smith said.

Buffolino didn’t answer; his attention was riveted on his task. As they continued their slow movement in the direction of the pedestrian walkway, Smith looked over the side. The water was brown, but he could see rocks just below its surface. He looked up. A log sat in their path. Buffolino killed the engine until the log drifted away, then advanced the throttle to its previous low setting.

They eventually reached a spot thirty feet from shore. “Right about there they found her,” Buffolino said. He throttled back and allowed the Aquasport to respond to the river’s natural flow, which nudged them closer to shore.

“How do you figure the body ended up there?” Smith asked.

Buffolino shrugged. “I got to figure it drifted in.”

“Why?”

Buffolino looked at the pedestrian causeway. “It
doesn’t make sense to me that anybody would bother hauling a dead body all the way across that thing—hell, look how long it is.”

“Unless killer and victim walked here together,” Smith said.

“I don’t think so, Mac. Besides, the gate’s locked at night. That’s what I read.”

“I heard it hadn’t been locked that night.”

“Yeah, but who would know that except the park ranger? Nah. Doesn’t add up.”

Smith observed the movement of the boat. “If the body were dumped in the water, it would move the way we are, toward shore. Right?”

Buffolino nodded.

Smith grunted and said, “From everything I’ve read, she was pretty well covered with debris. But she wasn’t murdered many hours before she was discovered.”

Buffolino looked back in the direction from which they’d come. “They’ve done a pretty good job of cleaning up this river, Mac. They got rid of the PCBs, ABCs, whatever the hell those things are called. The fishing’s pretty good now. But the water runs twenty miles down from Great Falls and picks up lots of debris.” He returned his attention to the shoreline. “I don’t figure it would take more than a couple of hours to get covered up pretty good with twigs and leaves and stuff the yahoos toss in.”

Smith didn’t look convinced.

“Tell you what,” Tony said. He went to the rear of the boat and untied an orange plastic bumper used to keep the craft from hitting the dock.

“What are you going to do with that?” Smith asked.

“Experiment.” Buffolino tossed the bumper out onto
the water, and both men watched it begin to drift. It was headed, slowly, toward shore. “Pretty good aim, huh?” Buffolino said. “Looks like it’ll land right where the body was.”

Smith nodded.

“Here’s what we do,” Buffolino said. “We get out of here, go up through the channel, and grab some lunch. Got a preference? There’s good seafood joints up around Maine and Seventh. You know. What’s your pleasure?”

“Your call,” Smith answered. “I’ve eaten in all of them.”

Buffolino maneuvered the Aquasport so that its direction was now reversed and gave the engine a boost. “Lunch should take us a couple hours,” he said. “By the time we get back, we’ll see whether that bumper’s got a ton a’ garbage on it.”

Over two flounder specials at Hogate’s, Smith brought up Buffolino’s assignment. “The Tierney job going well?”

“Yeah.”

“So, who killed Pauline Juris?”

Buffolino shook his head. “Could have been anybody. Somebody she worked with. Maybe somebody she was sleeping with. Somebody out of her past. Could even be somebody in Tierney’s family.”

“How well have you gotten to know the family?”

“Well enough. More tension in that house than in my own. I pick up on things just by hanging around. I got big ears, Mac. Mr. and Mrs. Tierney do not engage in what you would call marriage bliss. At each other’s throats all the time. And then there’s the kids. They’re not kids anymore, but they are their—kids. The daughter, Suzanne, she’s whack-a-ding-hoy.”

Smith’s eyebrows went up.

“Flaky,” Buffolino explained.

“You’ve been taking Chinese lessons?” Smith asked, laughing.

“Nah. Just a word I heard someplace. She’s an actress, and you know how they are. The artsy-craftsy crowd. Very dramatic, high-strung. Takes acting lessons up in New York, works for some booking agent in D.C. I know one thing. She’s no fan of her old man.”