Murder at the Pentagon Read Online Free Page A

antique coat tree and put it on over his brown tweed jacket. He went to the window and looked outside. A light rain had begun to fall. Maybe it would cool the city, drop it down a few degrees to a slow boil. He saw his image in the glass and patted the top of his head to rearrange hair that was not out of place. It made little difference. Foxboro’s sandy hair had the consistency of brushes used to thin out the undercoat of dogs and cats. Each individual hair made its own statement, pursued the direction it wished to go in, and he’d never been able to properly prune the bush until running across a stylist in Georgetown of the sort who had replaced barbers and who promised to “tame the beast”—and did, sort of. Foxboro carried his five-feet-eleven-inch frame straight-up: oddly, a distinct military posture, although he had not served in any branch of service. His face was squared-off and his brow was usually furrowed, set in an angry look that did not accurately reflect the quick, dry wit that could send that same face into a kaleidoscope of laugh lines. He lifted weights, but only for muscle tone, not for bicep bulge, and he’d developed into apretty good Chinese cook after taking an extension course in D.C.
    “My best to Mac Smith,” Wishengrad said as Foxboro made for the door.
    “Sure thing, Senator. I’ll tell him you have a new plan to get our nonexistent railroads to run on time—the Mussolini Plan. Have a good night. Get on home. Chances are, the United States government will still be in business in the morning.”
    Foxboro had intended to walk from the Dirksen Senate Office Building to Mackensie Smith’s house on Twenty-fifth Street in Foggy Bottom, but the fact that he was already late prompted him to jump into the rare, blessedly empty, rainy-night cruising taxi.
    As fatigued as he was, the contemplation of an evening with Margit and the Smiths energized him. He grinned as he projected what dinner would be like. While a law student at G. W., he’d been to his learned but streetsmart, practical professor’s home for dinner on a few occasions. Those evenings invariably ended up in raucous debate among the students invited for the evening and their teacher, who seemed very much at ease moderating the conflicting points of view that flew around the table. That Smith had a remarkable mind was without question, but it was often Annabel who capped off an issue with a pointed, insightful, usually witty comment, smiling sweetly at her husband when their viewpoints clashed and his ended up on the floor. Foxboro sometimes wondered after leaving their house whether they continued disagreeing, whether they ever fought. Probably not the latter; the Smiths seemed blissfully suited to each other, to say nothing of looking good together: he a craggy, rugged-looking man behind whose heavy horn-rimmed glasses, the beard-line was always reappearing minutes after a close shave; she a stunning female with a complexion like half-and-half, a thick mane of copper hair, and a figure that left scant doubt to which of the two major sexes she belonged.
    Foxboro bounded up steps in front of the narrow, two-story taupe brick house with the Federal blue shutters anddoor, and announced his arrival with a sharp rap of the brass knocker. Annabel answered. She held Rufus, their Great Blue Dane, by his collar to keep him from planting large paws on Foxboro’s shoulders. “Hello, Jeff,” she said pleasantly. “Come in. We were getting a little worried about you.”
    “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Been a hectic couple of days at the office. Or years. I forget which.”
    “Decades,” said Annabel, taking his coat and leading him to the living room, where Margit sat, a glass of white wine in her hand.
    “Hi, honey,” Foxboro said, kissing her cheek, lingering a little. To Annabel: “Where’s the prof?” Foxboro was never sure how to address Mac Smith. In his student days, of course, it was Professor Smith. Now that Foxboro