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“She give much of a description?”
“No. Kind of tall, heavyset, she said. Says she only saw him for a second. Excited. But not exactly broken up. I’d love to find this guy.”
“Maybe he will come forward.”
“Depends on what his game is. And mob co
“The Italian Mafia using black hit men these days?”
“That bothered me, too, except so many of the dago mob are in jail, maybe they have to go outside.” He grunted and stood. “Well, let’s head over to Northeast and spread the sketch around to some of our more prominent citizens, like the boss wants. That’ll kill the morning, and we can grab lunch at that joint we were at last week.”
As they walked to the unmarked car assigned them this day, Mullin said, “You know what I think, Vi
“What?”
“Black, white, mob, no mob, Israel, offing a guy nearly dead anyway-I think this one ain’t going to go away any time soon.”
FOURTEEN
Mackensie Smith returned to his office after having just taught a morning class at George Washington. He’d intended to take the summer off from teaching, but had been persuaded by his dean to offer a twice-weekly class on changes in criminal law since the imposition of stringent surveillance and detention policies brought about by the tragic events of September 11, 2001, and the ongoing terrorist threat.
The law school class was held on Tuesday and Thursday mornings at nine o’clock and was attended primarily by attorneys already in criminal practice who wanted an updated look at whatever policies the Justice Department had put into place. Teaching working attorneys-there were a few matriculated students in the course, but they were in the minority-posed a challenge for Smith. These weren’t wide-eyed young men and women aspiring to careers in the law. Rather, they were seasoned attorneys whose questions were more realistic than those of their younger counterparts.
Aside from teaching this one course, Smith was enjoying a leisurely summer with his wife, A
Smith had been a Washington criminal defense attorney, consistently cited in Washingtonian magazine’s a
But that all ended one rainy night when a drunken driver on the Beltway hit a car occupied by his wife and son, killing both. This double tragedy had profound consequences, as might be expected. His enthusiasm for practicing criminal law waned, and although his belief in the justice system remained strong, defending the criminally accused lost priority in his life. He resigned his partnership in the law firm and accepted what had been a long-standing invitation to join the prestigious faculty of George Washington University.
A
Smith, slightly taller than medium, stocky and strong, and with a slowly receding hairline, had always moved in relatively lofty Washington social and political circles. He predictably had become the object of female pursuit once the requisite amount of time had passed following the deaths of his wife and son, and was occasionally seen on the arm of a woman. But he never considered another serious romantic relationship until he met A
People said she resembled the actress Rita Hayworth, although Smith wasn’t fond of the who-does-she-look-like game. Besides, as far as he was concerned, A
They’d met at an embassy party and began seeing each other regularly. He was surprised that she’d never married; it certainly wasn’t for a lack of suitors. She’d just never met a man she was willing to commit to.
Mac Smith was that man, and he considered himself fortunate that she’d accepted his proposal and become A
They were married in a small chapel at the National Cathedral and set out on their new life as husband and wife, a handsome couple to be sure, and much in demand. But they’d agreed to be judicious in accepting invitations to preserve as much time as possible for their own use and to enjoy their love. When they were not really together, A
All in all, though life was not without a few bumps, Mr. and Mrs. Mackensie Smith were quite contented, thank you, ensconced in their spacious Watergate apartment with its stu
Mac spent an hour in his campus office sorting through paperwork and catching up on reading or speed-sca
“Kathryn? It’s Mac Smith.”
“Oh, hi, Mr. Smith,” Kathryn Jalick said, surprise at who was calling evident in her voice.
Smith laughed. “It’s Mac, remember. ‘Mr. Smith’ makes me feel ancient.”
“I know,” she said. “Sorry.”
“Is Rich there?”
“No… Mac. He’s gone to New York.”
“Editorial meeting?”
“I guess so. Yes, he has a session with his editor. Be back later tonight.”
“And how have you been?”
“Busy as usual. I have the day off from the library and I’m trying to catch up on housework. The place looks like a tornado hit it. And my mind matches the decor these days.”
“Well,” Smith said, “I just wanted to check in and see how the scribe’s book is coming along.”
“You’re talking to the wrong person, Mac. Rich has been on the go so much lately we never seem to have time to just sit down and catch up with each other.”
“I know how that can be, Kathryn. Looking forward to seeing you two tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“You haven’t forgotten, have you? Di
“Oh, no, I haven’t forgotten. We’re looking forward to it. I have to run, Mac. Thanks for calling. See you tomorrow.”
Smith frowned at the dead phone. He didn’t know Kathryn Jalick well, having met her only a few times when she’d accompanied Rich to the Smiths’ apartment, where Mac went over the publishing contract a New York publisher had tendered for the book Rich was writing. She sounded distracted. But maybe that was her usual telephone style.
He called A
“How goes it?” he asked.