Murder at the Kennedy Center Read Free

will undoubtedly choose someone for that post who wants it. That rules me out. Watch the show. You’ll be quizzed on it.”
    He went down H Street to Twenty-second, took a left to G, stopped in at DJ’s Fast Break for a sandwich to go, and slowed to a leisurely walk in the direction of his home on Twenty-fifth. The sky was overcast, and mist that threatened to degenerate into drizzle gave the air a thick quality. It was early June but felt like April, which, Smith reminded himself, was better than feeling like August in Washington, D.C. He pulled the collar of his raincoat up closer to his neck and thought of that question he’d been asked so many times since Ken Ewald seemed almost assured of his party’s nomination.
    Mac Smith and Ken Ewald went back a long time together. Their relationship wasn’t intensely political. Smith had never been much interested in partisan politics, but certain issues, certain causes, had always been dear to him, and he approved of Ewald’s stance on them.
    They’d first met when Ewald had begun to push, vigorously and at great political risk, for legislation on gun control, particularly handguns. Smith, at the time, was one of Washington’s most respected attorneys, especially in criminal law, and had been asked to testify at hearings held by Ewald’s committee. Shortly after Mac Smith’s appearance, he received a call from Ewald inviting him to a dinner party at the senator’s home. That began a limited friendship that had deepened over the years. It wasn’t that they spent much time together; their busy individual lives precluded that. But there were other parties, issues, occasional plane trips together, and Smith found himself not only the senator’s friend, but an unofficial legal—and, at times, personal—adviser to Ewald and his family.
    Issues beyond gun control drew Smith to Ken Ewald. The current president, Walter Manning, had little interest in the arts, and his administration reflected it. Ewald, on the otherhand, was the leading Senate voice in support of all things cultural, and every writer and artist, every musician and theatrical performing-arts group in the country, knew that any slice of the Federal pie designated for them was the direct result of these years of Ewald’s unfailing championing of their cause.
    From Smith’s perspective, Ewald was a well-balanced politician. As a freshman in Congress, he’d vigorously opposed the war, yet was a staunch supporter of maintaining military superiority over the Soviets. He’d called for the return of a WPA in which all able-bodied welfare recipients would work, or undergo training while collecting assistance, except the mentally ill, homeless, and AIDS victims. He had his faults, of course, but Smith had few reservations about supporting the man in his run for the White House, especially after the reign of Walter Manning.
    Smith turned the corner at Twenty-fifth and headed for home, his narrow, two-story taupe brick house with trim, shutters, and front door painted Federal blue. Attorney general? he thought. It brought a smile to his face. He had thought of many things he might be interested in doing with the rest of his life, but being directly involved in executive-branch politics was not on the list.
    He opened the door and entered the place that had been his home for the past seven years. Rufus greeted him with unwelcome enthusiasm. “Stay down,” Smith said, pushing on the blue Great Dane’s huge head. When Rufus stood on his hind legs, he looked his master in the eye.
    Smith answered the ringing phone in his study, making sure to put his sandwich on top of the refrigerator, out of Rufus’s reach.
    “Mac, it’s Leslie.”
    “Hello, Leslie, how are you?”
    “Tired but happy. I just came from the final meeting on the show and party. It’s going to be lovely, Mac. I’m so excited.”
    “Splendid. I assume Ken shares your enthusiasm.”
    “I think so, although I haven’t seen him enough to find out.