Murder at Union Station

TWENTY-TWO

Lobster and red snapper weren’t on the menu that night at the Watergate apartment of Mac and Annabel Smith. But they all ate well. After drinks accompanied by scallops wrapped in bacon, Mac grilled marinated chicken kebabs and vegetables on a hibachi on the terrace, whipped up his signature Caesar salad, and heated bread fresh from the Watergate bakery downstairs.

“Delicious,” Kathryn Jalick declared after her first taste of chicken. “What’s the secret to the marinade?”

“If I told you that, Kathryn, it wouldn’t be a secret any longer,” Smith said pleasantly.

“Spoken like a real chef,” Marienthal said.

“Mac’s a wonderful cook, but only when the spirit strikes him,” Annabel said. “I think he secretly always wanted to own a restaurant, but knows what an insane business that can be. I prefer a college professor for a husband.” She touched his arm.

“Actually,” Smith said, “I’ve been threatening for years to give up teaching, study cooking in Provence, and get a job in some restaurant kitchen. One of many unrequited fantasies.”

“Care to share them with us?” Kathryn asked.

“Not in mixed company,” Mac said, laughing. He turned to Marienthal. “So, Rich, we’re anxious to hear the latest with your book, and your read on the murder at Union Station. The victim, Russo, served as your inspiration, as I understand it.”

Marienthal appeared uncomfortable fielding the question. He sipped from a Belgian-style beer brewed in a Baltimore microbrewery that Smith, knowing Marienthal was a beer drinker, had bought especially for the evening. Rich looked at Kathryn, who avoided his eyes and focused on her plate.

Realizing an answer was expected, he said, “Well, things are going okay with the book. It’s at the printer and should be out soon.”

“What about Mr. Russo?” Annabel asked. “Had he come to Washington to meet with you?”

“Ah, yeah, he did.”

“You must have been in absolute shock,” said Annabel, “when you heard the news.”

“How did you hear?” Mac asked.

“I got a call.”

“I thought you might have been that mystery man they mentioned on TV,” Mac said with a chuckle. “The one who supposedly blurted out Russo’s name to the TV reporter.”

“I’d still like your marinade recipe,” Kathryn said.

“Sure, I’ll write it out after dinner,” Mac said. To Marienthal: “Did you get to see your folks when you were up in New York?”

“Yes, I did. Dad said to say hello.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Pretty good, I guess. He’s slowing down. Doesn’t practice much anymore.”

“I don’t blame him,” Mac said. “Criminal law can take a lot out of you. It can be, well, almost criminal.”

“You should know,” Kathryn said.

“Yes, I suppose I should. I’m sure he had some comments about the murder. After all, your dad represented Russo in the plea proceedings and put you in touch with him.”

“That’s right,” said Marienthal. “He wasn’t crazy about the idea at first, but I guess he realized how much I needed a book like this under my belt.”

“I’m dying to read it,” Annabel said.

“So am I,” Mac said.

“You’ll be among the first to get a copy,” said Marienthal. “I have to thank you again, Mac, for going over the publishing contract so thoroughly with me. I really appreciate it.”

“The least I could do. As I told you, publishing law isn’t my bag, but I was happy to do it.” He shook his head and laughed. “I’d never seen a contract like that, Rich. The publisher-what is it, Hobbes House?-really stacked things in their favor. That returns policy is a license to steal.”

Marienthal laughed, too. “I know,” he said. “The publisher sells books to bookstores on consignment. The store orders, say, ten, sells two, sends the other eight back to the publisher for full credit.”

“How does that impact the writer?” Annabel asked. “I looked at the contract, too, but my bag, as Mac puts it anachronistically, was matrimonial law.”

Mac answered. “From the way I read it, Rich gets paid royalties twice a year, provided he’s earned any beyond the advance. But the publisher has the right, according to the contract, to withhold a big portion of what’s due him in the event there are returns during the next six-month accounting period. It’s a hell of a float for the publisher.”

The peculiarities of the publishing industry occupied the conversation through the end of dinner.

“We’ll have dessert on the terrace,” Annabel announced.

“I’ll help clear,” Kathryn said.

While the women took dishes to the kitchen, Smith and Marienthal went out on to the terrace. The night air was still hot and heavy. A full moon illuminated ripples on the river. The spires of Georgetown University were lighted in the distance. A peaceful setting. Rufus, the Smiths’ great blue Dane, settled down next to Smith’s feet.

“What are the plans to publicize the novel, Rich?” Smith asked. “Will you be doing interviews, book signings?”

“I think so,” he replied. “I don’t think those plans are firmed up yet.”

“Getting late, isn’t it? You say the book is about to be published.”

“Yeah, you’re right. They’d better get on the ball.”

“I didn’t realize Hobbes House did fiction, Rich. I know they publish a lot of conservative nonfiction.”

His comment seemed to make Marienthal uncomfortable. After a false start, he said, “They want to branch out and do fiction. I guess I submitted my novel to them at the right time.”

“Good for you,” Smith said. “The public seems to have an insatiable appetite for novels about organized crime, the Mafia. I’m sure your book will do extremely well.”

“I hope so,” Marienthal said.

“Did Mr. Russo have a family in Israel?” Smith asked.

“No, not really. He lived with an Israeli woman named Sasha.”

Smith fell silent for a moment before saying, “I suppose the prevailing theory is that the mob killed him. You wouldn’t think they’d carry a grudge that long, but they evidently do.”

“Looks like it,” Marienthal said. “Did you represent mobsters when you were practicing law here in D.C.?”

“Not mafiosi. Other gang leaders.”

“Any of them go into witness protection?”

“No. Some copped a plea and did less time as a result. What was it that Russo told you that so captured your imagination? As I recall, you said he was a lower level mobster in New York, not a major player.”

“Well, he-any chance of another beer, Mac?”

“Coming right up.”

Annabel and Kathryn accompanied Mac back to the patio. Annabel carried a platter of fancy cookies bought at the bakery; Kathryn brought a tray holding cups and saucers, cream and sugar, and spoons. Annabel went to the kitchen and returned with a carafe of hot coffee. Once they were all seated, Mac said, “I was talking with Rich about Mr. Russo. It’s pretty evident that his former criminal associates got even with him for having turned against them.” He said to Kathryn, “You know, of course, that Rich’s dad represented Russo during the trial.”

“Yes,” she said. “Rich has told me all about it.”

This led to a discussion of the ethics of cutting deals with members of organized crime in order to put others, usually higher-ups, away.

“I’ve always had trouble with it,” Annabel said. “Some murderer with a dozen killings under his belt cops a plea, turns on his bosses, and gets paid off with a sweet deal, the witness protection program, a new life and identity, money, other perks. I just can’t square that in my mind.”

“Was Russo a murderer?” Smith asked.

“Yes,” Marienthal replied. “Quite a few. Mob stuff, disputes over territory, or matters of discipline-or, as the bosses see it, honor.”

Annabel wrapped her arms about herself, as though it had turned cold. “Gives me the shivers, these people who place so little value on life.”

Smith said, “I’ve always found it interesting and ironic the way organized crime has to operate. It’s a major industry in this country-at least it was-but it can’t resolve business disputes in courts of law as other industries and companies do. So it’s got to solve its differences privately.”

“By killing competitors,” Kathryn said. She’d said little since they’d gathered on the terrace.

“What was Russo’s attitude about having killed people?” Smith asked.

“He was- Oh, I don’t know. He viewed it as a job, I suppose. He grew up in the streets, saw the wiseguys dressed nice and on the arms of pretty women. I know he was a killer, but he could also be a nice guy. At least he was to me.”

“Mellowed with age,” Annabel commented.

“I suppose that happens to everyone,” Marienthal said, “even mob muscle men.”

As they were about to call it a night, Annabel mentioned a newscast she’d seen late that afternoon on which the discovery of the body in Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens had been reported.

“I saw only a portion of it,” she said, “but the reporter indicated the body might have been of the man who shot your Mr. Russo in Union Station.”

Kathryn started to say something, but Marienthal interrupted her. “I didn’t hear that,” he said.

“I’m sure it’ll be repeated,” Annabel said.

“Yeah, I hope so,” Marienthal said. “This evening was really great. The meal was wonderful.”

“That recipe for marinade,” Kathryn reminded.

Smith wrote the recipe on a slip of paper and handed it to Kathryn as they said good night at the door.

When they were gone, and after Mac had helped Annabel straighten up the kitchen and they had walked Rufus, they wound down the evening on the terrace with small snifters of Cognac.

“A nice couple,” Annabel said.

“Yeah, they are. But there’s something strange going on.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. He seems very distracted, reluctant to talk about his book. Ever meet a writer who didn’t want to talk about his work? And Kathryn gives me the impression of wanting to say things but not being able to.”

“Why would that be?”

“I don’t know that either, Annabel. The whole situation is a little bizarre. Rich is put in contact with this former Mafia hit man by his father, who represented the man in his plea deal and entrance into the witness protection program. According to Rich, he interviewed Russo as the basis for his novel, which is being published by Hobbes House.”

“And?”

A shrug from Mac. “As far as I know, Hobbes House doesn’t publish fiction. It’s always been the leading publisher of nonfiction books with a right-wing slant. Rich says they’re beginning to publish fiction. He wasn’t terribly convincing. At any rate, Russo suddenly leaves his safe haven in Israel and shows up here in Washington. Rich says he came to meet with him, but that’s it. No further explanation. I mean, this man who supposedly inspired Rich’s novel is gunned down, and Rich has nothing to say about it? By the way, what’s this about a body being found in Kenilworth?”

Annabel recounted what she’d heard on TV.

“Did you see Rich’s reaction when you mentioned it?”

“He didn’t have one.”

“That’s right. Didn’t ask one question or volunteer one comment. Nothing.”

“There must be a logical reason.”

“There must be a reason. Whether it’s logical or not is another matter.”

“What I find unusual is that he’s never offered to show you the manuscript.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s significant. He’s a writer, probably filled with superstitions about having people see his work. His father certainly isn’t happy with his son’s decision to become a writer. That came through loud and clear the last time I spoke with him.”

“Kids don’t always go in the direction parents want them to. My father was thrilled when I became a lawyer. If he were alive, I’m not sure how he’d respond to my having given up all that education and experience to own an art gallery.”

“I’m sure the fact that you’re happy would be good enough for him. Ready for bed?”

“Yes.”

When they were under the covers and on the verge of sleep, Annabel said, “Maybe you should call Rich’s father and ask him what’s going on.”

“Maybe I should. I owe Frank a call anyway, just to see how he’s doing.”

“I wonder what his reaction to his client’s murder is,” she said sleepily.

“I’ll ask. Good night, Mrs. Smith.”

“Good night, Professor. Pleasant dreams.”