but I’ll be informed of that in short order, if he does decide to proceed with charges. I know that you didn’t come home that night after the show at the Kennedy Center. I know that you had access to the weapon that killed Andrea Feldman. And I know that you’d been having an affair with her. If that’s all the DA is going on, he won’t dare seek an indictment. I can assure you of that.”
Ewald drew a deep breath, sat back, and looked up at the ceiling. His eyes were closed, and he pressed his lips tightly together. Smith took the moment to observe him. Paul Ewald was a presentable young man. Smith thought of the actors Van Johnson and Martin Milner. Paul had the same boyish quality as his father, although there was a subtle ruggedness to his father’s face that Paul did not possess. In fact, Smith had often thought that there was a softness in Paul Ewald that was almost androgynous, half-effeminate, with a certain vulnerability—call it weakness—that was, at once, appealing yet off-putting. Ewald was wearing socks; his shoes had been removed as a matter of procedure. He had on a white shirt open at the collar and gray trousers. As he opened his eyes and looked at Smith, his fatigue was apparant.
“Paul, did you kill Andrea Feldman?”
“Of course not.”
“You were sleeping with her, and she threatened to break up your marriage and ruin your father’s chances.”
“No. Andrea was demanding, but not to that extent. I’d come to hate her, though.” Ewald laughed. “Maybe Ishould have killed her. I’m ending up in the same position whether I did or not.”
“Not true, Paul. They have to
prove
you killed her, and if you didn’t, they’ll have a tough time with that.”
Ewald shook his head. “Pardon me, Mac, if I don’t enthusiastically agree with you. Have you ever had nightmares that you’d be accused of something you didn’t do, but you’d end up paying for it for the rest of your life?”
“Only after I’ve read novels in which that happened. It won’t happen here.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Smith broke the ensuing silence. “Do you have any idea who might have killed Andrea?”
“No, I don’t, although women like Andrea Feldman can get people pretty upset.”
Smith thought of Riga’s comment about mules, but kept it to himself. He rolled his fingers on the tabletop and chewed on his cheek. “Paul, had you been with her to the Buccaneer Motel, the place she had a key to?”
“Yes.”
“The night she was murdered?”
Ewald shook his head. “No, we didn’t have sex that night.”
“Didn’t Andrea have an apartment here in D.C.?”
“Yes, she did, but we never went there. I thought it was strange, but she said we should be more discreet than that, go out of town every time we got together.” He banged his fist on the table. “Damn it, I should have known better. If things weren’t so … rotten at home, maybe I wouldn’t have … hell, no sense blaming circumstances. No sense blaming Janet. The fact was,
we
did not have the kind of life recently that, among other things, promotes a healthy sexual existence between man and wife.”
Smith made a few notes on a pad. He asked, “When did you meet Andrea, Paul—
after
she’d joined your father’s campaign staff?”
“No. I met her several years ago at a party in Georgetown, sort of a business gathering at the home of one of my important customers. She was there with a date, but we had one of those locked-eyes reactions to each other all night.Before she left, she slipped me her phone number. I sat on it for a while. Then, one night, I had a fight with Janet, left the house, and called her. She suggested we meet for a drink. We did. One drink led to several, and we ended up driving to Maryland, where we made love for the first time.”
“I see,” Smith said. “Then what? Did you suggest she join your father’s staff?”
“I guess so. She told me how much she believed in my father’s cause, and how
Ewald drew a deep breath, sat back, and looked up at the ceiling. His eyes were closed, and he pressed his lips tightly together. Smith took the moment to observe him. Paul Ewald was a presentable young man. Smith thought of the actors Van Johnson and Martin Milner. Paul had the same boyish quality as his father, although there was a subtle ruggedness to his father’s face that Paul did not possess. In fact, Smith had often thought that there was a softness in Paul Ewald that was almost androgynous, half-effeminate, with a certain vulnerability—call it weakness—that was, at once, appealing yet off-putting. Ewald was wearing socks; his shoes had been removed as a matter of procedure. He had on a white shirt open at the collar and gray trousers. As he opened his eyes and looked at Smith, his fatigue was apparant.
“Paul, did you kill Andrea Feldman?”
“Of course not.”
“You were sleeping with her, and she threatened to break up your marriage and ruin your father’s chances.”
“No. Andrea was demanding, but not to that extent. I’d come to hate her, though.” Ewald laughed. “Maybe Ishould have killed her. I’m ending up in the same position whether I did or not.”
“Not true, Paul. They have to
prove
you killed her, and if you didn’t, they’ll have a tough time with that.”
Ewald shook his head. “Pardon me, Mac, if I don’t enthusiastically agree with you. Have you ever had nightmares that you’d be accused of something you didn’t do, but you’d end up paying for it for the rest of your life?”
“Only after I’ve read novels in which that happened. It won’t happen here.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Smith broke the ensuing silence. “Do you have any idea who might have killed Andrea?”
“No, I don’t, although women like Andrea Feldman can get people pretty upset.”
Smith thought of Riga’s comment about mules, but kept it to himself. He rolled his fingers on the tabletop and chewed on his cheek. “Paul, had you been with her to the Buccaneer Motel, the place she had a key to?”
“Yes.”
“The night she was murdered?”
Ewald shook his head. “No, we didn’t have sex that night.”
“Didn’t Andrea have an apartment here in D.C.?”
“Yes, she did, but we never went there. I thought it was strange, but she said we should be more discreet than that, go out of town every time we got together.” He banged his fist on the table. “Damn it, I should have known better. If things weren’t so … rotten at home, maybe I wouldn’t have … hell, no sense blaming circumstances. No sense blaming Janet. The fact was,
we
did not have the kind of life recently that, among other things, promotes a healthy sexual existence between man and wife.”
Smith made a few notes on a pad. He asked, “When did you meet Andrea, Paul—
after
she’d joined your father’s campaign staff?”
“No. I met her several years ago at a party in Georgetown, sort of a business gathering at the home of one of my important customers. She was there with a date, but we had one of those locked-eyes reactions to each other all night.Before she left, she slipped me her phone number. I sat on it for a while. Then, one night, I had a fight with Janet, left the house, and called her. She suggested we meet for a drink. We did. One drink led to several, and we ended up driving to Maryland, where we made love for the first time.”
“I see,” Smith said. “Then what? Did you suggest she join your father’s staff?”
“I guess so. She told me how much she believed in my father’s cause, and how
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