Murder at the Kennedy Center Read Online Free PDF

the Kennedy Center.
    Mac Smith, who’d quickly grown weary of being congratulated for having helped put together the evening, got himself a scotch and soda and found a relatively private spot on the west side of the terrace. People were milling everywhere; a six-piece band played hyper-amplified rock and roll, and hundreds of guests, young and old, gyrated to the rhythms on a large dance floor. Smith was thinking of Annabel Reed and what she might be doing at that moment in New York when the bulky body and round face of Jody Backus circumvented knots of people and headed his way. Ewald had insisted that all his Democratic rivals be invited, and most of them had showed up, including Senator Backus.
    Smith had met Backus a number of times at social gatherings. Although the conservative senator represented few politicaland social ideas shared by Smith, he’d enjoyed those previous meetings, for Backus was a jovial, easy-talking conversationalist, with a bottomless reservoir of anecdotes and a tendency toward blunt truth.
    “Hello, Senator,” Smith said, extending his hand.
    Backus took it in one of his own large hands and shook his head. “Looks like you and my dear colleague from the Senate pulled off quite a coup here tonight, Mac Smith.”
    “With lots of help,” Smith said.
    “I’m impressed. Nobody helpin’ this ol’ boy has come up with anything this good.”
    Smith laughed. “We had a few moments of inspiration, that’s all.”
    “And tons a’ bucks, I’d say. Good thing Ken’s daddy made all those millions out in California. All that talent really work for nothin’?”
    Smith nodded. “They were the
only
people who worked for nothing. You’re right, Senator, it cost quite a few bucks.”
    Backus and Smith looked out over the crowd. “That’s one thing about us Democrats that the Republicans don’t have,” Backus said.
    “What’s that, Senator?”
    “The ability to have a hell of a good time.”
    “You ought to make sure that it’s written into this year’s platform,” Smith joked. “A good time will be had by all, and twice in every pot.”
    Backus thought for a second, then laughed. He shook Smith’s hand again and said, “I just want you to know, Mac, that if I don’t manage to get me the nomination in July, your man has my support one hundred percent, and he can count on it.”
    Smith started to say that Ken Ewald was not exactly “his man,” but decided to hold off. Backus waved, walked away, and Smith was joined by a plainclothes friend who was part of the Center’s security staff. Together, they enjoyed watching the characters and the dancing, some skillful, some merely animated. During the slower numbers, Ed Farmer danced sedately with a gray-haired woman, the wife of the majority leader, but was interrupted after a few minutes,naturally, by a phone call. Ken Ewald and his wife made a comfortable portrait of grace in motion and drew applause. The beat changed and the volume increased. Andrea Feldman, the young woman on Ewald’s staff who’d been so helpful in setting up the gala, had captured the attention of others on the dance floor as she expended frenetic and somewhat erotic energy with a tall, handsome young blond man who’d removed his suit jacket, and who wore red, white, and blue striped suspenders over his white shirt. Andrea’s purple silk dress closely followed every contour of her splendid figure. Around her waist was a vibrant belt, more a sash, created of multicolored feathers from exotic birds.
    “I’d like to see you out there dancing like that, Mac,” the security man said.
    “I would, except Annie isn’t here.” He smiled at the image; he had little taste whatsoever for most of today’s popular music, and preferred his dancing to be quiet and pleasant, bodies gently touching, a soothing melody and subtle beat in the background.
    The band ended the “song” it was playing, and Farmer took the microphone. After congratulating everyone who had played