Murder at the Watergate Read Free Page B

building’s tenants was sorted. “No, sir.”
    Hedras could have taken the elevator to the basement and walked underground through the parking garages to the hotel, but the weather was nice. He preferred to get a little air before being cooped up yet again with movers and shakers trying to corner him to get their messages across to the veep. That’s what he disliked most about the job of helping guide Aprile’s run for the White House, having to suffer all the rich fools who thought that in addition to money, they had the answers to every domestic dilemma and international crisis, and who weren’t reticent about making their views known. That’s what their checks bought, somebody’s ear. For Chris Hedras, the debates that had been going on for years about reforming the way campaigns raised money was a waste of time, energy—and, yes, money. It was politics; you needed money to run, and those giving it to you damn well would have their moment in court. Those who were out moaned about the unfairness of the system. Those who were in weren’t about to change what got them there. If avoiding hypocrisy were high on his agenda, Washington, DC, was the last place he would work.
    It wasn’t. There were more urgent things to worry about.
    He stopped for a moment in the Watergate’s circular driveway at the main entrance to chat with the doorman, who’d been with the hotel for more than twenty years, then went through the doors and paused in the lobby.
    “Good evening, Mr. Hedras,” the guest relations manager said from behind her desk.
    “Good evening.”
    “Big night,” she said.
    “It’s supposed to be.”
    They stopped talking as Placido Domingo, surrounded by an entourage, came in from the other direction. Two black stretch limousines waited outside, engines purring, doors open.
    “I wish I could sing like him,” Hedras said.
    She laughed. “He just bought an apartment here. He’s the new artistic director of the Washington Opera. He’s so sexy.”
    “Oh, yeah? What about me?”
    “What about you?”
    “Don’t you think I’m sexy?”
    She waved her hand in a way that said she’d heard that kind of talk from him too many times before. He grinned, walked in the direction of the small reception desk, took a quick right before reaching the Potomac Lounge, and went down a carpeted, circular staircase to the next level, where the public rooms were located. He was stopped at the foot of the stairs by two Secret Service agents.
    “Hello, John,” Hedras said.
    “Mr. Hedras, how are you this evening?”
    “Great. Everything buckled down?”
    “Yes, sir. Always is.”
    Hedras looked to his left, where a contingent of other agents had fanned out. This was the second entrance to the hotel, the one used by dignitaries and celebrities to avoid the busy main lobby.
    “Excuse me,” Hedras said, continuing down a long carpeted hallway leading to the public rooms, including the 6,500-square-foot ballroom with huge windows overlooking the Potomac. Agents were posted at regular intervals along his route. There was something satisfying about being recognized by them and not being challenged. The black-and-gold pin in his lapel was his grail; with it he could approach even the president. That little piece of metal made you feel powerful, made you feel good. On the other hand, he occasionally felt a twinge of resentment at the Secret Service agents guarding the president and vice president. If they wanted to, for any reason deemed necessary for security, they could stop him, detain him, even whisk him away, little black-and-gold pin or no pin. Of course, they wouldn’t do that, considering his position as one of the president’s men, now on loan to the campaign of the man likely to be next to occupy the “People’s House.”
    “Chris,” a young woman said. She was a member of the campaign’s meeting-planning committee, and had been working ’round-the-clock with the hotel’s catering people to set up the