Murder on the Potomac (5 page)

She simply didn’t understand.

Since he was a boy, Mayes had wanted a job that would keep him outdoors and close to nature. Being hired as a ranger for the Interior Department was the fulfillment of that boyhood dream, a dream Grace no longer shared. “Get another job,” she said to him most nights. “We can’t live on what you make.”

“Like a goddamn broken record,” Lloyd usually replied, sometimes to her, more often to himself. He said it now as he looked up into the bronze face of Teddy Roosevelt, the country’s conservation president. Four twenty-one-foot-high granite tablets flanked the statue. Written on them were things Roosevelt had said about the environment, some of which Mayes had committed to memory. His favorite:
“There is delight in the hardy life of the open. There are no words that can tell the hidden spirit of the wilderness, that can reveal its mystery, and its charm.”

His second-favorite line from ol’ Rough Rider was, “A man’s usefulness depends upon his living up to his
ideals in so far as he can.” As many times as he quoted that to Grace in the hope it would help her understand him, she only hardened. And last night she delivered her ultimatum. The job or her. Good there were no kids, he thought, as he slowly walked from the oval terrace that comprised the Roosevelt memorial, crossed one of four small footbridges spanning a water-filled moat, and started down a foot trail, one of two-and-a-half miles of trails that criss-crossed the eighty-eight-acre preserve. The first flight out of nearby National Airport whined above; Mayes looked up and watched the jet become a black dragonfly against the reddening eastern sky. He stopped a number of times on his way to the river where a 170-foot pedestrian causeway linked the island to a parking lot just off the northbound lane of the George Washington Memorial Parkway. A startled red fox fixed him with wide eyes, then disappeared into a grove of tulip trees. A chipmunk crossed his path. Mayes smiled as the tiny, curious creature darted out of his way, perched on the fallen trunk of a maple, and sat up. “ ’Morning,” Mayes said.

He enjoyed the early-morning peace at this place. There was no peace at home these days.

As he neared the river, the ground became spongy. The island, he would point out to his first batch of tourists, consisted of three biological communities—swamp, marsh, and upland forest.

Minutes later, he stood at the island end of the causeway and looked out over the Potomac. A small bass boat moved south, its two occupants heading for a day of fishing. Mayes envied them. Maybe he’d drag out his fishing gear that weekend.

Every morning since being assigned to duty on the island,
it was Mayes’s responsibility to cross to the opposite end of the causeway and unlock a padlock that secured a metal gate through which visitors would pass. There was no need this morning. When he’d arrived in the darkness, he’d noticed that the lock was undone, the gate partway open. The ranger who’d finished up yesterday must have forgotten; Mayes made a mental note to mention it to his colleague when he came on duty.

He leaned on the railing and peered down at the shoreline below the causeway. He shook his head. Although the Potomac had been cleaned up over the past few years—it no longer was a vile, brown, polluted waterway and now supported an ample fish population—people still dumped garbage into it. “Slobs!” he said at the sight of plastic bags, tin cans, and other vestiges of human consumption that had drifted in to shore and were trapped by small broken branches and rocks. He turned and started back up to the memorial, hesitated after only a few feet, and returned to where he’d stood. He leaned over the railing as far as he dared and squinted.

Then he said, “Oh, my God.”

That Afternoon

Mac Smith looked out over his one o’clock class and frowned. He was tired; he’d been lecturing for two hours on the subject of plea bargaining and its place in the criminal-justice system. The more pragmatic of his students accepted his thesis that plea bargaining was a necessary evil in a system choked with cases. Others, their idealism worn on their earrings, saw no rightful place for the distasteful practice of cutting deals with criminals. One, a pale young lady who’d been arrested more than once at White House demonstrations for causes unknown, was the most vocal. He enjoyed debates with most people, on most subjects, but she bothered him. There was an expression on her thin face that spoke of scorn for him and his anachronistic ideas. Disagree
with me, but keep your scorn to yourself, he thought.

That day, she’d droned on about the government’s penchant for granting immunity, or reduced sentences, to violent, vicious members of organized crime in order to put away the top guy.

“Like the Gotti case,” Smith said, checking his watch.

“Exactly,” the student responded. “That guy, Sammy the Bull, was an acknowledged murderer. But because the feds had a thing for Gotti and his in-your-face style, they let slime like Sammy the Bull walk free.”

Smith said that it was an imperfect world and that he was glad it was, because a perfect world would be boring. He patiently pointed out again that plea bargaining was necessary because of the overcrowded court system. “More than that,” he said, “by putting away the boss of a major crime family, you disrupt it. Chances are good that it will fall into disarray. And, Ms. Clausen, I suggest you read the papers more carefully. Mr. Sammy the Bull Gravano did not take a walk. He’ll do twenty years’ hard time.”

“But what about the attorney for Gotti?” she persisted as Smith gathered up his papers and books and prepared to leave. “He can’t see it your way. His client is away for life.”

“True,” Smith said over his shoulder. “But Sammy the Bull’s attorney is as happy as a pig in mud. Have a good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I intend to.”

As he walked from the classroom to his office, he couldn’t help but second-guess himself on his exchange with Clausen. In all honesty, he agreed that going to bed with a devil like Gravano in order to make a prosecutor’s
case against a mob boss was distasteful. Perhaps even wrong. But he was no longer interested in crusading to change the legal system in which he’d functioned—flourished—for so many years as a criminal attorney. His current responsibility was to prepare his students for the real world of justice. The imperfect world. And hopefully, along the way, to slip in a dose of ethics, moral truth, fidelity to principle and, in Ms. Clausen’s case, an understanding of how to protest without ending up with a rap sheet. In reality, he liked her. At least she had convictions, as tedious as they might be. His more “realistic” students bored him. For them, their professional lives as lawyers would center about running outrageous time sheets for outrageously wealthy corporate clients. For Ms. Clausen—assuming she would learn how to stay out of jail—someone with a small budget and a large, worthwhile cause would benefit from her fire and legal training. At least he hoped so.

The phone in his cramped office rang at three-thirty.

“Hello,” he said.

“Mac. This is Wendell Tierney. Sorry to bother you at work, but—”

“No bother, Wendell. This isn’t work. I teach. We get summers off. Annabel was delighted with her first board meeting. She said you run a smooth ship.”

Tierney drew a deep, audible breath. “Mac, I need to talk to you. Something dreadful has happened.”

Smith pushed half-glasses up on his forehead and leaned back in his chair. “I’m listening.”

“I received a call an hour ago from the police. Pauline has been … she’s been murdered.” There was a momentary break in his voice.

“Your assistant? Pauline Juris?”

Forced breathing on the other end steadied the voice. “Yes. Her body was found this morning on Roosevelt Island.”

“You’re sure it was murder?
They’re sure?
MPD, I mean.”

“That’s what they told me.”

“How was she killed?”

“I asked, but they wouldn’t say. Mac, I’ll get straight to the point. I would be extremely grateful if you could find time for us to get together today.”

“I don’t understand,” Smith said.

“I need some clear thinking,” Tierney said. “I don’t know what will come of this—legally, I mean—but there’s no one in this city whose judgment I trust more. Will you? I’ll make myself available any time, any place.”

“I suppose so, Wendell, although I remind you that I am not a practicing attorney.”

“That doesn’t matter. I’m not seeking legal representation. Just some smart thinking. Will you?”

“Of course. An hour from now?”

“Will you come to the house?”

“Fiver?”

“I’ll be waiting.”

He called Annabel at her gallery.

“Pauline Juris murdered? I was with her last night at the board meeting.”

“I know. Tierney says they found her body on Roosevelt Island.”

“I don’t believe this,” Annabel said.

“I’d rather not believe it. Wendell did seem desperate to talk to me, and he is … well, sort of a friend.”

Her silence said much.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“A woman with whom I spent last evening has been murdered. I’d say that represents something wrong.”

“Whoa, wait a minute,” Smith said. “I’m not talking about being upset over the fact that she’s dead. You seem angry with
me
.”

“Angry with you? No. Concerned? Yes. I suppose you’re doing the right thing by responding to Wendell’s call. I also know it frightens me. Another murder. Is it going to start all over again?”

He didn’t hesitate with his answer. “No, it isn’t,” he said. “I’ll be home for dinner. Any preferences?”

“Somehow, I’m having trouble thinking of food at this moment.”

“Your gastric juices will say something by the time I get there. Chinese? Salads from American Cafe?”

“Whatever. Please tell Wendell how sorry I am about Pauline.”

Five O’Clock That Afternoon

The Tierney complex sat majestically on a ridge in McLean, Virginia, overlooking the Potomac River. A long set of gray wooden steps zigzagged down through woods and boulders to the river’s edge where Tierney’s personal marina had been dredged and built years ago. Anchored at it were four boats: his 105-foot luxury yacht,
Marilyn
; a Cigarette racing boat belonging to his adopted son, Sun Ben Cheong, that carried the name
M.O.R
. and was translated beneath in Chinese symbols; an Aquasport utility fishing boat; and a fully fitted-out bass boat.

The complex itself centered on a huge Georgian Revival-style home that had been expanded over the years into a series of wings that jutted out at odd angles. Some wings, depending upon the architect, approximated
the main house’s architectural theme. Others did not, taking a more contemporary approach. A columnar porch ran the width of the front of the home, affording excellent vistas of the river and beyond. To the rear of the house, which was what you approached as you entered along a winding tree-lined drive, was a cluster of small gardens, one Japanese, some distinctly British, another an obvious vegetable patch. Outbuildings included a barn and a six-car garage with living quarters above.

A dozen cars were in the circular gravel drive, two of them marked police vehicles.

Smith parked his navy-blue Chevy Caprice at the end of the line, got out, and looked up to the sky. It was gray overall, with heavier clouds approaching from the west. He stepped up onto a farmer’s porch containing potting materials, a barbecue, and three bicycles, and knocked. The door was opened by Tierney’s son. “Mr. Smith. Hello. My father said you were coming.”

“Hello, Chip. I’m on time, I think. Sorry about the news.”

“It was quite a blow to all of us. Come in, please.”

Because the main entrance was on the river side in front, and since there wasn’t an automobile access to that side of the house, visitors entered through the back door into a large mudroom—for lack of a better word—that had been spruced up to function as a foyer. Still, the prevailing feeling was mudroom.

It was a home in which an active family obviously lived; the vestiges of young men were in ample evidence. Baseball bats and gloves, a lacrosse stick, fishing rods, and skis littered corners of the foyer—mudroom—where they had been carelessly tossed. A row of
wooden pegs acted as hangers for an assortment of outerwear.

Smith knew from previous visits that the rest of the house was not so casual. It was sprawling and splendid, each large room filled with enough antiques to excite Sotheby’s. At the same time, Tierney’s love of electronic gadgets was ever in evidence. You didn’t have to move more than a few feet to put your hand on a telephone. The house’s security system was state-of-the-art. Large TV projection screens dominated many rooms, and the main stereo system, with speakers throughout the house, had enough wattage to amplify the Kennedy Center.

“Dad is in his study. The police are here.”

“So I noticed,” Smith said.

He followed Chip up a wide curved staircase to the study on the second level where Tierney sat in a large red leather chair facing the door. He sprang to his feet, crossed the room, and extended his hand. “Right on time, Mac. But no surprise there. Come in, come in.”

Smith said something noncommittal; to say he was pleased to be there would have misrepresented the truth. Tierney led him to where the others now stood. “Mac Smith, let me introduce you to these gentlemen, and lady, from the police department.” The two men wore discount-store suits of an undefined color and sported requisite short haircuts. They were detectives Winters and Casale. The woman was introduced as “Detective Darcy Eikenberg. The lead investigator in this tragedy.”

As Smith took her outstretched hand, he was aware that it was exquisitely manicured: Long red nails, more like talons, seemed distinctly at odds with her job.

“Detective Eikenberg and I have met,” Smith said. “You were a student of mine not long ago.”

“I certainly was. You gave a night course on the law and contemporary urban ills. A requisite course, I believe. I’m a thesis away from my Ph.D. at GW in urban studies.”

Smith smiled. “And I attended one of
your
lectures,” he said. “About a year ago. You spoke to a criminal-justice class on new forensic techniques. I had some free time and dropped in. I was especially interested in that electrostatic detection equipment. What did you say? It can analyze indented writing as many as twenty pages down in a pad of paper?”