Murder on the Potomac Read Online Free PDF

followed her into the bedroom. “Why is it a pity?
    Why this sudden infatuation with the Scarlet Sin Society?”
    She sat at the dressing table and brushed her longhair. “Interest, that’s all,” she said. “Interest in something other than the mundane business of Washington and politics and street crime and the like.” She stopped her motion with the brush, turned slightly, and added, “If you want to talk about something sophomoric, try politics the way it’s played in this city.”
    No, he thought. No political debates at this hour. Like drinking caffeine before bed.
    “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Tri-S does support good causes.”
    She resumed the vigorous stroking. “Wendell reminded me of the cruise next Saturday.”
    “I forgot about that,” Smith said. “Didn’t write it on my calendar.”
    “Better do it,” she said. “Should be a nice day.”
    “Yes, I’m sure it will be.”
    The cruise would be on Tierney’s luxury cruiser,
Marilyn
, named after his wife. It was a beautifully appointed boat, fully crewed, and it would be replete with entertainment, inexhaustible food and drinks, and a guest roster of Washington’s movers and shakers. Mac and Annabel had been on previous Potomac cruises with Tierney. Smith had found some of Tierney’s shipmates to be too precious for his blood, but in the main these had been relaxing events.
    “Ready for bed?” he asked.
    “Not at all sleepy,” she replied. “I’m going to read Chester’s proposal on New Orleans architecture. I also never got to the
Post
today. You packing it in?”
    “I think I will. An evening of student briefs can be fatiguing, to say nothing of frustrating. Where do they get that polyester that passes for brains? I’ll walk Rufus. Back in a minute.”
    He’d intended for the walk to last only long enough for Rufus to take care of business in preparation for the night. But the minute he stepped out of their narrow two-story taupe brick house on Twenty-fifth Street, with its Federal-blue trim, shutters, and front door, he decided he was in need of a brisk walk for himself—to relieve a set of unsettling, undefined feelings.
    Man and dog crossed Eye Street and slowed in front of the River Inn, home of one of Smith’s favorite restaurants, the Foggy Bottom Cafe. It was closed for the evening, but he saw through the windows the staff unwinding at the small bar after a busy night. Had he knocked, they would have invited him in for a nightcap, even with the dog. He wasn’t in the mood.
    He continued north until reaching K, turned left, and went to Twenty-seventh, then left again to the Watergate complex. He’d lived there in a two-bedroom apartment following the Beltway slaughter of his wife and son by a drunk driver. That tragic event had been the turning point in his decision to abandon his lucrative law practice and to accept the teaching position at GWU. As part of his “clean sweep,” he’d bought the small house on Twenty-fifth and settled into the quiet bachelor life of a professor of law.
    But then he met Annabel, and the light that had been extinguished on the Beltway was lit again, different but still a lovely light.
    They’d met at a party at the British embassy. Annabel was a lawyer, specializing in matrimonial cases. But like Smith, she’d harbored a desire to pursue something else, in her case a love of pre-Columbian art and a dream of owning a gallery. When she broached this to Smith after they’d been seeing each other for more than a year, hewas enthusiastic and encouraged her to follow her dream. She cleaned up pending cases, closed her office, and leased space on Wisconsin Avenue in the heart of Georgetown. She’d never been happier. She was doing what she loved, was
in
love, and knew that her love was returned by the handsome and urbane Mackensie Smith.
    Smith and Rufus continued walking south until reaching the gleaming white Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. It, too, spurred memories. A