Murder at the Kennedy Center Read Free Page A

I’ll be glad when the last of the primaries is over, the convention is behind us, and …”
    Smith laughed. “And you’re choosing drapes for the Oval Office.”
    “I don’t dare say it. Bad luck to say such things. At least that’s what gloomy Ed Farmer would say.”
    “Somehow, Leslie, I don’t think luck will have much to do with it.”
    “I just wanted to tell you how well the meeting went, and to thank you again for your help.”
    “I didn’t do much.”
    “More than you think. It’s always comforting to have the clear-headed wisdom of Mackensie Smith on tap. I’ve got a last-minute idea Boris and Georges won’t like. Have to run, Mac. See you tomorrow. Don’t forget to shave and wear a clean shirt.”

3
    Ken Ewald, senior U.S. senator from California, stood alone in the anteroom behind the president’s box in the Kennedy Center’s opera house. Chairs upholstered in a white, green, and red floral pattern surrounded a glass-topped coffee table. The carpet was the color of ripe cherries. Small paintings dotted pale green walls.
    He walked to where the seal hung next to the door and removed it from its hook. His fingers traced the raised wording: SEAL OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES . The letters were in blue, the background gold. An eagle dominated the center, its breast a shield of red, white, and blue. The seal was always on the wall, unless the president and his party were attending an event in the opera house. When that happened, it was hung in front of the box for the audience to see. Tickets to the box were part of the president’s patronage—to give, if he wished to share them. Otherwise, the box stood empty during performances.
    Ewald opened the door and stepped into the box. Below were twenty-three hundred empty seats. The party to kick off that night’s musical gala was in progress onstage. Ewald had been down there moments before. Bored, he’d wanderedup to the box. The lead Secret Service agent assigned to him for the night, Robert Jeroldson, remained outside in the foyer on Ewald’s instructions.
    He looked down at the stage where Leslie, their son, Paul, and daughter-in-law, Janet, stood with some of the celebrities who would perform that night. His physical distance from them at that moment was symbolic; never before had he and Leslie worked so closely together, yet he knew the inherent pressures of seeking the presidency created tremendous and understandable pressures on her, and on their marriage. A politician’s wife—she garnered more votes than any platform could.
    He surveyed the stage for other familiar faces. They certainly were there, some pleasing, others representing necessary evils. He looked around the empty box and wondered at those who’d occupied the White House in the past. Some had spent considerable time in this presidential box. Others, like the sitting president, Republican Walter Manning, had been openly without interest in the artistic events that gave life to the nation’s cultural center.
    He looked down at the seal in his hands and was suddenly overwhelmed at the significance of the office it represented. The decision to run for president had not come easily to him. He’d spent countless hours of private debate over whether he was indeed qualified to lead a nation that not only was the most powerful on earth, but meant so much to him. He knew he was up to the task as far as experience and insight into the workings of government went. Years in Congress—first in the House, then in the Senate—had given him a broad and deep understanding of how things worked, how things got done. But was that enough? Did he want it badly enough, was there enough of the proverbial fire in his belly to carry into the job itself?
    He thought back to when Eugene McCarthy had sought the presidency. McCarthy had been on a television talk show. The host—Ewald couldn’t remember who it was—commented that certain critics of McCarthy claimed he did not want to be