Murder on the Potomac (6 page)

She’d held his hand throughout the exchange. Now she withdrew it, smiled, and said, “You have a good memory, Professor. And I should tell you that your class was the highlight of my Ph.D. program.”

“I hope not,” he said.

As he sat next to Tierney, he thought that of all the detectives with whom he’d come in contact during his long career as a criminal attorney, none looked like Darcy Eikenberg. She was tall—five-eleven, he guessed—had a head of thick, luxuriant brown hair that was more a mane and a face shaped by a master craftsman who’d had an uncanny sense of symmetry and proportion.

Her tall, lithe body was no less carefully crafted. Most female detectives Smith had known (their numbers grew at an astounding rate) tended to dress in the same uncaring way as the majority of their male counterparts. Not Detective Eikenberg. She looked ready to present takeover plans to General Motors’ board. The black linen suit said it had come from the most expensive rack in an expensive shop. The white silk blouse
featured a large bow at the neck, and it said: Woman. A detective? If the old game show
What’s My Line?
were still on TV, she’d be certain to stump the panel.

With everyone seated again, Smith asked Eikenberg to fill him in on Pauline Juris’s murder.

“Not much to tell you,” she said, one shapely leg crossing over the other. “The body was found early this morning by a park ranger on Roosevelt Island. Positive I.D. on Ms. Juris. Blow to the head with a heavy but clearly defined object.”

“ ‘Clearly defined’?” Smith said. “Like the head of a hammer?”

“It wasn’t a hammer. Body was partially submerged along with debris on the shoreline, just below the pedestrian causeway to the island.”

“Fully clothed?” Smith asked.

Eikenberg laughed and looked at her male assistants. “Do you have the feeling
we’re
being investigated by the learned professor?” She said it in such a way that Smith would not take offense. Which he wouldn’t have no matter how she’d said it.

“Sorry,” Smith said. “Can’t get out of the habit.”

Eikenberg said coyly, “Teasing.”

Smith turned to Tierney. “Wendell, I’m not sure why I’m here. Could we go into another room?”

Tierney looked to the detectives for the answer. “Are you through with me?” he asked.

“I think so, Mr. Tierney,” Eikenberg said, recrossing her legs. “Obviously, we’ll have more questions for you. I trust you don’t have travel plans in the near future.”

Tierney smiled, a perfect set of white teeth made
more so by the tan of his face. “As a matter of fact, I do. Are you telling me I’m not to leave town?”

“That would be a good idea,” she said.

Tierney asked Smith, “What do you think of this, Counselor?”

Smith shrugged. “I’m not your attorney, Wendell.”

“Maybe we should rectify that.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible.” Smith spoke to Eikenberg: “You aren’t really suggesting that Mr. Tierney cancel important business travel, are you? Is he a suspect?”

“Mr. Tierney is important to the resolution of this case, just as others are,” she answered. Diplomatic, Smith thought, to not confirm suspect status. He stared at her. She smiled and said, “Mr. Tierney—who is not your client—is free to travel, provided he lets me know in advance of his plans.”

“No problem,” Tierney said. “Nothing extensive. Just one, maybe two, overnight trips.”

Tierney showed the officers out of the house. When he returned, he came up behind Smith and kneaded his shoulders. “I loved it, Mac, the way she backed down about me traveling when you confronted her.”

Smith winced, not at the pressure exerted by Tierney’s fingers but because he didn’t like people who gave massages without invitation. He slid out of the chair and went to a window overlooking the river, watching a small red boat moving fast downriver. He turned and faced Tierney. “Well, here I am, Wendell. What can I do for you?”

“What you just did a few minutes ago. Keep me out of this.”

Smith shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned
against the sill. “There is no one who can, as you put it, keep you out of it. You and Pauline worked closely together for years. It’s my understanding that she was like a member of the family. As pleasantly as Detective Eikenberg put it, you are a suspect.”

“Nonsense,” Tierney said, touching a spot on a paneled wall that caused doors to open. Behind was a fully stocked liquor cabinet. “Drink?” he asked without looking back.

“Thanks, no,” Smith said. “I really should be going.”

“Not yet.” Then, as though realizing he was in no position to make demands, he added, “Please. Just a few more minutes.”

“A three-minute splash of bourbon on the rocks.”

Seated across from each other, Tierney leaned forward, elbows on knees, and fixed Smith in a compelling stare. “Mac, let me level with you. Pauline’s murder is going to have a dreadful impact on a lot of people, including me.”

Smith said nothing. Silently, he wondered at Tierney’s coldness. His closest aide and family friend had been found murdered only hours earlier. Yet he mentioned it only in terms of its potential impact upon him.

Smith’s silence prompted Tierney to continue. “Pauline’s long tenure with me has naturally brought her into close contact with everyone with whom I deal, including my family. There have been occasional problems over the years where they’re concerned.”

“Your family?”

“Yes.”

“What sort of problems?”

Tierney sat back and thought before replying. “Nothing major, Mac, but there have been times when
Pauline’s—how shall I say it?—when Pauline’s curt, abrasive manner rubbed people the wrong way.”

“Marilyn?” Smith asked, referring to Tierney’s wife.

Tierney nodded. “The point is,” he said, “Marilyn and I have been traveling a rocky road these days. That’s between us, of course. To compound that, I’m involved in some sensitive deals that could be crucial to the future of Tierney Development. They demand my full attention. I can’t afford interruptions.”

Smith considered whether to say it, then decided what the hell. “Wendell, I’m hearing you voice concerns about a lot of things. I haven’t once heard you talk about the tragedy that occurred last night.”

His message prompted a change in Tierney’s otherwise consistent expression. He closed his eyes as though to shut them against the unpleasant truth he’d just heard and slowly shook his head. When he opened his eyes, he said, “Mac, you should have been here when I received the call about Pauline. I was devastated, damn near broke down. But I happen to be a man who believes that life is a series of problems to be solved. That takes clear, unemotional thinking. I
had
my emotional response. Now it’s time to meet any resulting problems head-on.” A smile. “As a lawyer, I’m sure you agree.”

Smith said nothing.

Tierney slapped his hands on his thighs and stood. “Will you represent me?” he asked.

“Represent you? For what? You haven’t been accused of anything. I no longer practice law. And unless you’ve forgotten, you have enough top-notch lawyers on retainer to make up another Supreme Court. Maybe a better one. No, you don’t need me.”

“Perhaps not in an official capacity, but as a friend and adviser? Sure, I have lawyers at my disposal, but none with your experience, Mac. We’re talking
murder
here, and I’m aware of your previous experience with
that
nasty business. All I ask is that I be able to confer with you if things get too complicated.”

“You know you can always talk to me, Wendell. Let’s leave it at that. What plans have been made for Pauline’s funeral?”

“Haven’t even thought about it. I suppose I’ll end up burying her. There isn’t anyone else. She hasn’t had any contact with her ex-husband, and as far as family goes—”

“Pauline was married?”

“Long ago. It lasted less than a year. That’s all I know. She wasn’t big on discussing personal matters. At any rate, the police are doing an autopsy. Will slow things up, I suppose.”

“Undoubtedly.” Smith stood. “I think I should go.”

He extended his hand to Tierney, who took it in both of his and pumped it. “Thanks, Mac. You know, the way you handled Eikenberg was a joy to behold. Spectacular woman, isn’t she?”

“And bright. I remember her as a student. An ability to clamp down hard on a concept, chew, digest, and understand it.”

Tierney put his hand over Smith’s shoulder and walked him through the house to the rear entrance. “Before I forget,” he said, “that private investigator of yours still in business?”

“Tony? Tony Buffolino? I wouldn’t call him my investigator. But yes, he is. Still in business. Why?”

“I may call on him again to beef up security around here and at the office.”

“You really feel you need additional security?”

“You never know, Mac. Maybe someone did this to Pauline to get at me. I have a family to protect, and I intend to do that. Your friend Buffolino did a good job last time I used him.”

“He usually does. Well, Wendell, we’ll be in touch.”

“Of course. See you and Annabel on Saturday?”

Smith frowned. “The cruise? I assumed it would be canceled, considering what’s happened.”

“No. Been scheduled for months. There’s no reason for people to have to alter their plans, especially since most of them really had very little to do with Pauline. Life goes on, Mac. So does the Saturday cruise.”

“I’ll talk to Annabel about it. Thanks for the drink.”

Smith reached his car, opened the door, and looked back at the house. Marilyn Tierney stood in a second-floor window, her face pulled down into an expression that was at once sad and angry. Smith waved. She closed the drapes.

An Hour Later

Annabel was rearranging a kitchen cupboard when Mac returned carrying duck pâté, salad, and a baguette from the French Market. She had to stretch to reach the top shelf, which caused her dress to ride up her legs. “Lovely sight,” Smith said, touching her hip. “Lifts your skirt and my spirits.”

“Watch it, mister,” she said, returning to a flat-footed posture and accepting his kiss. “Oh, you have a message on your machine, Mac.” Theirs was a his-and-her answering machine household.

“Who?” he asked as he emptied the bags.

“A Detective Eikenberg. Actually, the message was more for me. She wants to interview me regarding Pauline’s murder.”

“Why you?”

“Go listen.”

He went to the study, and hit Play. It rewound, then Darcy Eikenberg’s voice came smoothly from the small speaker like an all-night disk jockey playing “Misty.”

She left the number of her direct MPD line.

Annabel entered the study as Mac was resetting the machine. “Routine,” he said. “They’ll interview everyone who knew her.”

“Of course. What did she mean, ‘fond memories’?”

Smith laughed. “She was at Wendell’s this afternoon questioning him. I had her in a class not long ago. She’s close to her doctorate in urban studies, or something like that. And I caught a lecture she gave at the university on forensic police techniques.”

“You didn’t tell me about that,” Annabel said.

“Nothing to tell,” Smith replied. “When do you want to get together with her?”

“Whenever.”

“I suggest you do it quickly, get it over with. Call her back.”

“I thought you might want to do that. She made a point of wanting you present.”

“Can’t imagine why, but okay. What’s good for you?”

“I have to be at the gallery late afternoon tomorrow. Any time before that will be fine. How did it go with Wendell?”

“He’s upset, of course. Maybe that’s not the right word. He’s concerned what kind of impact Pauline’s murder will have on him. Maybe the family.”

“That sounds cold.”

“Probably sounds colder than he means it to be. He hinted that all isn’t exactly pure romance with him and Marilyn.”

Annabel said over her shoulder as she headed for the kitchen, “I sensed that the first time I met them. He’s a cold man who tries to be warm. Wants to be diplomatic, but being blunt comes easier.”

Smith followed. “Pauline was killed with a blunt instrument,” he said.

“The detective told you that?”

“Yeah. Wendell’s a prime suspect, of course. Can’t go out of town without prior notification to the police.”

Annabel began unwrapping the packages Smith had brought from the market. “What do you think she’ll ask me?”

“The detective? What you might have observed the night of the board meeting. Did you notice anything unusual with Pauline?”

“No. She was businesslike as usual. And pleasant.”

“Seem upset about anything?”

“No.”

“She say anything to anyone that might …?”

“Mac, I appreciate being prepped, but it gives me the chills.”

“Sorry. Force of habit.” He laughed. “I did the same thing with Darcy, asked a lot of questions. She didn’t appreciate it, either.”

They enjoyed a quiet dinner. During it, Mac fell into a prolonged silence. “Something wrong?” Annabel asked.

“I was thinking of that kid who drowned up at the falls. It keeps coming back to me like an out-of-control VCR. Actually, when I see that little child down there in the water, I think of Geof.” Geof was Mac’s son who died at the hand of a drunken driver.

When her husband slipped into that dark mode, Annabel knew there was nothing she could say or do to help it pass. It simply would, and did, a few minutes later.

Dinner dishes cleared, they settled in for an evening of reading. First, Mac said, “Want me to call now and set up an appointment? She might still be at MPD.”

“Sure.”

Eikenberg answered on the first ring.

“Mac Smith here. I spoke with my wife, and she’ll make herself available to you any time tomorrow morning.” He listened, placed his hand over the mouthpiece, and said to Annabel, “Ten?”