Murder in Foggy Bottom by Margaret Truman Page A

statement.”
    “You’ve got to be joking,” the son said.
    “Hey, I know this is an imposition but I’m just doing my job. What’s the . . . what’s the mood here?”
    “You creep, you sadistic son of a bitch,” the son said, and slammed the door in Potamos’s face.
    He returned to his car, started it, thought, Sometimes I hate this job. But it’s nice to be hated. He mouthed an opening line to the story: “The mood at the Watson family’s home was joyous and happy, like a celebration. ‘We finally got rid of the fat, old bastard, and can live like kings off the insurance.’ ”
    Bile stung his throat. He spit out the window, pulled away, and headed back to the District.
    “. . . and so Jessica was waiting for a cab and I drove her home.”
    Mac Smith was with his wife, Annabel, on the terrace of their Watergate apartment. The sun was setting over the Potomac, creating a warm orange glow to the end of a sunny yet emotionally gray day in the nation’s capital. Their Great Dane, Rufus, slept at their feet.
    “How is she?” Annabel asked, sipping from the Gibson Mac had made.
    “Seemed fine. We talked about the plane crashes and this rumor about missiles bringing them down.”
    “Still just rumor? I haven’t caught up on the news.”
    “Evidently.”
    “I like Jessica,” Annabel said. “Shame how her marriage to that FBI guy worked out, or didn’t. I wonder if she ever sees him.”
    “Not something I’d ask,” said Mac. “Probably not. He was an undercover specialist, remember?”
    “Sure, I do. The last time I saw her, which was a month ago or so, she said she was seeing someone from the State Department.”
    “Work is the best place to meet someone, they say.”
    “We didn’t meet at work.”
    He chuckled. “Probably wouldn’t have liked each other if we had. When you told me you were a lawyer, too, at that embassy party, I thought, What a shame.”
    “Why?”
    “I never liked lawyers.”
    “I’m glad you didn’t hold it against me.”
    “So am I. Besides, you weren’t like most lawyers. Is Jessica still roaming the hills and meadows?”
    “Yes. She talked about birds a lot more than the guy from State she’s seeing. It’s such a passion with her.”
    “Maybe that’s what happened with her first marriage. It’s not that passion is for the birds, but maybe she felt too much passion for them, not enough for her husband.”
    “Mac, that’s unworthy of you.”
    “Just speculating. Another drink?”
    “Thanks, no. Oh, look.” She pointed at a bird that flew by the terrace. “How pretty. I’m crazy about birds.”
    “Don’t start.”
    She giggled and squeezed his hand. “You’re the only bird I care about. You’re like a . . . like a cardinal.”
    “Not an old crow?”
    “Or an eagle. What do I remind you of ?”
    “A . . . I don’t know much about birds. But you’re a . . . a . . . a canary. A flamingo. A beautiful robin. Ready for dinner?”
    “Yes. The drink was excellent. What are you in the mood for?”
    “Duck? Quail? Pheasant under glass?”
    “Pasta.”
    “Sold. Let’s go.”

10
    That Night
Washington, DC
     
    Jessica arrived at Primi Piatti early; she was early to most appointments.
    “Ah, Ms. Mumford,” said the maître d’, “what a pleasure to see you again.” He led her through the large, Art Deco room to a table for two in a far corner, held out her chair, and asked if she’d like a drink while waiting for her dinner companion.
    “A Negroni, dry, please.”
    “The usual,” the maître d’ said.
    Jessica laughed. “I didn’t realize I’d ordered enough Negronis here for it to be the
usual.
”
    “I didn’t mean—”
    “Of course not,” she said, waving her hand. “I just found it amusing.”
    A few years ago, “the usual” for her would have been an extra-dry martini, straight up. But after spending a week in Florence and being introduced to the Negroni— a martini with the pleasantly bitter taste of the aperitif