good nature now roughened up by Tierney’s sandpaper style. But he reminded himself that this was, after all, Tierney’s manner. He was a man used to getting his way, hiring and firing, spreading money around, an archetypal D.C. power broker. Second nature to him.
“Will you, Mac? I mean, at least take a shot at it for me? I don’t expect miracles, but I would appreciate the effort. Just a few phone calls.” Tierney sat on the couch next to Smith, glanced at the closed slatted doors through which the faint sounds of the party could be heard, and lowered his voice. “What I really want, Mac, is for these letters to not be made public. I don’t want some son of a bitch leaking them to the press. You can imagine what that would do to Marilyn, to my children. It would be devastating.”
“Not if you didn’t write them,” Smith said.
“What does it matter if I wrote them or not? If the police say my name is on them, the seed is planted. Please, Mac. I know I’ve been imposing upon you since Pauline’s death, but I’m pulling out all the stops to keep my family together. If I ever needed family, it’s now. I don’t think I can survive this without their support.”
The new sincerity in Tierney’s voice had its intended effect. Smith had known a lot of men like Tierney—arrogant, self-assured, yet with the magical ability to draw you in and make you want to respond.
Tierney continued. “I don’t care about business,” he said. “I don’t care about myself. But I do care about my family. Whoever wrote those letters and put my name on them is out to destroy me. Whether it’s a businesscompetitor or someone with a personal grudge doesn’t matter a hell of a lot. All I know is that I’ll do anything to keep my family out of it. One call, Mac. Just see what you can do. That’s all I ask.”
Smith stood, sighed. “Let me think about it, Wendell.”
Tierney said, “I can’t ask more than that. By the way, Mac, introducing me to Tony Buffolino was a real favor. I’ve hired him until this mess is resolved. You don’t think I’m paranoid, wanting security beefed up, do you?”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“He’s a real character. But you know something? He’s changed since the last time he worked for me. I wouldn’t call him refined, but he’s smoothed some of the rough edges.”
Smith smiled. “I hope he doesn’t lose too many of those rough edges. That’s part of his charm—and his effectiveness.”
When Smith returned to the deck, Annabel had left the bow and joined a group aft. Her eyes asked the obvious. Smith’s expression said, “I’ll tell you when we get home.”
And so it was left until they pulled up to Tierney’s private dock, the gangplank was lowered, and the guests filed off, each woman carrying a souvenir of the trip, a sterling-silver music box in the shape of balustrades that adorn the National Building Museum.
Mac and Annabel didn’t say much on the drive home. But once inside the house, and after Annabel had placed the music box on the mantel—“What a beautiful gift,” she said—they sat in the kitchen, where he told her of his conversation with Tierney.
“What do you think?” Annabel asked.
“I don’t know what I think,” was his response. “Somehow, I believe him. I don’t think he wrote those letters. On the other hand, maybe he did. If he didn’t, somebody not only wants to link him to Pauline’s murder, they’re out to destroy him personally.”
“Will you make the phone call?” she asked.
“Yes. It’s a small thing. I doubt if I’ll learn much, but I’d like to be able to say I tried.”
“Who will you call?”
“MPD.”
“Detective Eikenberg?”
“She’s the lead detective on the case and the one who told Wendell about the letters.”
“Do what you think is right. Now excuse me. I brought home the account books from the gallery to reconcile this weekend. I think I’ll get started.”
Smith intercepted her on her way
“Will you, Mac? I mean, at least take a shot at it for me? I don’t expect miracles, but I would appreciate the effort. Just a few phone calls.” Tierney sat on the couch next to Smith, glanced at the closed slatted doors through which the faint sounds of the party could be heard, and lowered his voice. “What I really want, Mac, is for these letters to not be made public. I don’t want some son of a bitch leaking them to the press. You can imagine what that would do to Marilyn, to my children. It would be devastating.”
“Not if you didn’t write them,” Smith said.
“What does it matter if I wrote them or not? If the police say my name is on them, the seed is planted. Please, Mac. I know I’ve been imposing upon you since Pauline’s death, but I’m pulling out all the stops to keep my family together. If I ever needed family, it’s now. I don’t think I can survive this without their support.”
The new sincerity in Tierney’s voice had its intended effect. Smith had known a lot of men like Tierney—arrogant, self-assured, yet with the magical ability to draw you in and make you want to respond.
Tierney continued. “I don’t care about business,” he said. “I don’t care about myself. But I do care about my family. Whoever wrote those letters and put my name on them is out to destroy me. Whether it’s a businesscompetitor or someone with a personal grudge doesn’t matter a hell of a lot. All I know is that I’ll do anything to keep my family out of it. One call, Mac. Just see what you can do. That’s all I ask.”
Smith stood, sighed. “Let me think about it, Wendell.”
Tierney said, “I can’t ask more than that. By the way, Mac, introducing me to Tony Buffolino was a real favor. I’ve hired him until this mess is resolved. You don’t think I’m paranoid, wanting security beefed up, do you?”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“He’s a real character. But you know something? He’s changed since the last time he worked for me. I wouldn’t call him refined, but he’s smoothed some of the rough edges.”
Smith smiled. “I hope he doesn’t lose too many of those rough edges. That’s part of his charm—and his effectiveness.”
When Smith returned to the deck, Annabel had left the bow and joined a group aft. Her eyes asked the obvious. Smith’s expression said, “I’ll tell you when we get home.”
And so it was left until they pulled up to Tierney’s private dock, the gangplank was lowered, and the guests filed off, each woman carrying a souvenir of the trip, a sterling-silver music box in the shape of balustrades that adorn the National Building Museum.
Mac and Annabel didn’t say much on the drive home. But once inside the house, and after Annabel had placed the music box on the mantel—“What a beautiful gift,” she said—they sat in the kitchen, where he told her of his conversation with Tierney.
“What do you think?” Annabel asked.
“I don’t know what I think,” was his response. “Somehow, I believe him. I don’t think he wrote those letters. On the other hand, maybe he did. If he didn’t, somebody not only wants to link him to Pauline’s murder, they’re out to destroy him personally.”
“Will you make the phone call?” she asked.
“Yes. It’s a small thing. I doubt if I’ll learn much, but I’d like to be able to say I tried.”
“Who will you call?”
“MPD.”
“Detective Eikenberg?”
“She’s the lead detective on the case and the one who told Wendell about the letters.”
“Do what you think is right. Now excuse me. I brought home the account books from the gallery to reconcile this weekend. I think I’ll get started.”
Smith intercepted her on her way
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