Murder at the Pentagon Read Online Free Page B

was a full-fledged attorney and a senatorial aide, he’d been asked by Smith to call him Mac, which he did but always with a modicum of unease.
    “Where else?” Annabel replied. “In the kitchen whipping up another culinary triumph. Something to make Burger King limp with envy. Drink?”
    “Yes, please,” Foxboro said. “Scotch on the rocks would be help for the needy.”
    Annabel returned with a large glass filled with ice and Knockando. Few blends in the Smith household, Jeff thought appreciatively. All the scotch was single blend, and the bourbon came from a single barrel. Smith poked his head out of the kitchen to shout a greeting. He wore a long apron over a blue button-down shirt and red paisley tie. The illustration on the apron was a stream running through a forest. Two oven mitts shaped like trout were attached to the apron with Velcro.
    Annabel sat next to Margit on a love seat, Rufus sprawled at their feet and halfway into the next room. Foxboro wandered into the kitchen, where Smith was busy rubbing a beef tenderloin with soy sauce. He further seasoned the meat with fresh pepper, then placed the platter on top of the refrigerator. “The last time I cooked a beef tenderloin, I made themistake of leaving it on the counter,” Smith said. “One swallow, and Rufus enjoyed another hors d’oeuvre.”
    Foxboro laughed. “A Big Mac for him.”
    “And Chinese takeout for us. How have you been, Jeff?”
    “Pretty well, although I feel as though I’ve taken up residence in Senator Wishengrad’s office. By the way, he sends his best. I didn’t know you were friends.”
    Smith looked up from a large cast-iron skillet into which he’d placed a tablespoon of olive oil. “We’re not friends. I spent some time on the senator’s commission on the cities, and I got to know what a good man he is. Not much came out of the commission, I’m afraid. Your boss is in the minority where federal aid to cities is concerned, but we did what we could. You have a drink. Good.” Smith picked up a heavy cut-crystal glass filled with ice and a velvety brown liquid, raised it to his lips, and sipped slowly and noisily. “Excellent. I know the trend these days continues to be wine spritzers, or bottled water with little bubbles, but a good single-barrel bourbon is a lot more soul-satisfying. At least for me. Rufus doesn’t much care for it.” He turned on the oven, adjusted the temperature dial to 450 degrees, and leaned against the counter. “I haven’t caught up on the news yet today. Anything on the Joycelen murder?”
    Foxboro shrugged. “About the only thing Rufus
doesn’t
care for, except burglars. Not much talk about the murder where I’ve spent the last few days. Oh, there was some speculation right after it happened, but our Arab friend with his new toy is center stage.”
    “Damn shame,” Smith said. “Any movement on the UN resolution to condemn him?”
    “Not enough. Everybody seems to have their own notion how to deal with it, which means it probably won’t be dealt with, at least for a while.”
    Margit appeared in the doorway, and Foxboro put his arm around her waist. Annabel joined them, causing Smith to ask, “Why is it that everybody always ends up in the kitchen? My sexual magnetism?”
    “In this case it’s not your cooking prowess, or any other.It’s four fierce appetites,” Annabel answered. Smith enjoyed cooking, although he didn’t do much of it. He considered himself an able chef, but it was the quiet consensus of those who knew him best that the key to his success in the kitchen was in the markets, buying the best ingredients, and keeping the menus simple.
    “What’s the scuttlebutt at the Pentagon on Joycelen?” Smith asked Margit.
    “Not much that I know of, though we seem to manufacture gossip with greater productivity than anything else. Well, maybe with the exception of paperwork. The Defense Criminal Investigation Service is in charge. Whether they’ve gotten anywhere