Murder on the Potomac (33 page)

“And Sun Ben did the same thing?”

“Yes. Only he used diamonds bought through his brother in Hong Kong.”

“The profits must be enormous to entice otherwise honest people to get involved.”

“Potentially. Of course, Sun Ben had an additional motivation to set up his laundering operation. He lost so much playing baccarat, he couldn’t keep up with what he owed the casinos. His reputation as a financial guru caught the attention of the mob, which had all this drug money to launder. They cut a deal. Sun’s been very upfront about how it happened. The mob had its hooks in him pretty deep. Deep enough to get him to throw over a sterling career in finance to launder drug money in a diamond bath. Tragic.”

“Do you believe Sam? That he knew nothing about what Sun Ben was doing on the side?”

“Yes, I do. Tankloff’s a straight arrow, Annabel. He trusted Sun like a son. The accounts Sun set up in the Caymans for Sam were legit. Sun’s other, private accounts obviously weren’t. John tells me there’s to be no further investigation of Sam. They took a look at him because of his close connection with Sun Ben. Evidently, he’s clean. And broken up about Sun. He took it hard.”

“Harder than Wendell, I gather.”

Smith nodded and ate a petit four. “Boy, that’s good.”

“We keep this up and we’ll both be ungodly fat.”

Mac had one more.

“
Merci
,” Annabel said to the waiter, who poured café filtre.

“Wendell seems to be taking a perverse comfort in the police not being able to
prove
that Chip murdered Pauline. At least not in court. Our statements about Chip’s confession just before his death close the case, as far as the police are concerned. But the family won’t have to go through a murder trial.”

“Small comfort,” Annabel muttered. “A son is dead.”

“Wendell’s biggest problem, it seems, is Sun Ben’s testimony against him. He’s cooperating with the police in the case against Wendell.”

“I wonder if he would if Wendell hadn’t tried to set him up to take the fall for Chip in Pauline’s murder,” said Annabel.

“Probably not. Sun Ben really loves the family. Or did. A father attempting to sell his son down the river—adopted son or not—isn’t calculated to foster love, or loyalty. Wendell ran his own funny-money operation, including all the bribes to Hal Mason and others. Insider stock trading. Fraudulent land deals. Father and son both gone astray.”

“But different motivations,” Annabel said. “Sun Ben had his terrible weakness for gambling, which led to a gun being held to his head.”

“And with Wendell, it was pure greed. One thing’s for certain. There’re lots of chips still waiting to fall in our beloved D.C.”

“
Chips
waiting to fall?” she said.

Mac said, “Unintentional. I don’t go in much for tragic puns. Forgive me.”

They spent the misty afternoon walking the narrow streets of the Left Bank. They stopped to admire a
young artist’s efforts. Annabel’s enthusiasm was greater than her husband’s. “There’s a Monet quality to this,” she said, picking up a small watercolor and holding it up to the sky’s diffused light.

“If you insist. It doesn’t do much for me. Like Ben Johnson said about the ‘adulteries of art,’ it strikes my eyes but not my heart.”

“It scores a bull’s-eye on my heart,” she said gaily.

They bought the painting from the grateful artist and continued their stroll. The sun broke through at five, and they whiled away an hour in an outdoor café along the Seine.

“Not unlike the Potomac,” Smith said. A young couple embraced on the riverbank.

“A lot more peaceful.”

“We’ll find that peace again back home,” he said.

“Were you truly concerned that a real gun might be used during the Key-Sickles reenactment?” Mac had casually mentioned that to her during their long polar flight.

“It crossed my mind as we stood there and watched. Make a good plot, if nothing else.”

“Shame the Scarlet Sin Society is no longer. You could have brought it up at a meeting.”

“Another missed opportunity in the life of Mackensie Smith,” he said.

Annabel broke a silence of short duration. “Pauline knew too much.”

“What?”

“She knew too much. That was her only crime, and it got her killed.”

“It’s been known to happen. According to Sun Ben, Pauline threatened to blow the whistle on both his and
Wendell’s illegal activities. He’d confided in his brother about the hold the Mafia had on him and what he was doing in servitude. Pauline already knew everything about Wendell’s shady financial dealings. When she and Chip were having their affair, he told her about Sun Ben. Now she knew enough about two members of the family to go after what Wendell claims she always wanted more than anything else—money and power.”

“And Chip killed her to keep her quiet. To protect his family.”

“Sounds noble, doesn’t it? It isn’t.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“One thing we’ll never know,” said Mac.

“What is?”

“How Chip got Pauline’s body to Roosevelt Island. Took her out in a boat? Dumped her in the river and didn’t worry where she’d end up? Carried her across the pedestrian walkway and tossed her over it?”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“It does to Tony. He says he won’t enjoy a good night’s sleep again until he figures it out.”

“Poor Alicia.”

They fell silent again. Mac held a glass of house wine in both hands in front of his lips, his brow knitted.

“A frame for your thoughts,” Annabel said.

“I was thinking about Darcy Eikenberg.”

“You were?”

“Yeah. Not a bad person. And a good detective, I think.”

“She was taught by a pretty good professor.”

“Nothing to do with it. It’s all instincts. Tony has good instincts. So do you, as a matter of fact.”

“About solving crime, or when another woman has set her sights on my man?”

“A little of both. There’s something inherently sad about the Darcy Eikenbergs of this world.”

“Because of what you said the other night? Too attractive to be taken seriously?”

“That coupled with being a cop. A female cop. An alien intruder into a male domain, no matter how far you’ve come, ‘baby.’ Who does she talk to? Other cops? She’s brighter than most. Needs a higher level of discourse.”

“A college professor, for instance.”

“Hmmmm. Know what I want to do the first weekend after we get home?”

“Tell me.”

“Go up to Great Falls.”

It was her turn for a creased forehead. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to be a victim of what happened there. Like falling off a horse and getting back on, I suppose. It’s so beautiful up there. I want to be able to enjoy that beauty again. Maybe if I go, it’ll put a rest to my vision of the child going over.”

“If it will, I’m all for it. We were all headed for a fall, in your dreams. Speaking of the river, you promised me a day of fishing.”

“And you shall have it, Mrs. Smith. Maybe Tony will drive us to a peaceful spot on the river in his Rolls. His for a year. Ready for a nap? We should pack for our getaway tomorrow.”

“Nap? Yes. Pack? That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“And what was on that pretty mind?”

“A nap, during which we celebrate our last night in Paris, the painting we bought—that you will learn to love—and maybe find the fireworks.”

MURDER IN THE SUPREME COURT
*

MURDER IN THE SMITHSONIAN
*

MURDER ON EMBASSY ROW
*

MURDER AT THE FBI
*

MURDER IN GEORGETOWN
*

MURDER IN THE CIA
*

MURDER AT THE KENNEDY CENTER
*

MURDER AT THE NATIONAL CATHEDRAL
*

MURDER AT THE PENTAGON
*

MURDER ON THE POTOMAC
*

MURDER AT THE NATIONAL GALLERY
*

MURDER IN THE HOUSE
*

Nonfiction:

FIRST LADIES
*

BESS W. TRUMAN

SOUVENIR

WOMEN OF COURAGE

HARRYS TRUMAN

LETTERS FROM FATHER

The Truman Family’s Personal Correspondences

WHERE THE BUCK STOPS

WHITE HOUSE PETS

*
Published by Fawcett Books