Murder at Union Station

TWENTY-EIGHT

That same evening, Mac and Annabel Smith returned to a phone ringing in their Watergate apartment after having enjoyed dinner out. Annabel picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Annabel? It’s Frank Marienthal in New York.”

“Hello, Frank. Your timing is good. We just walked in.”

“Glad I still have good timing,” he said pleasantly. “I seem to be losing other things.”

“Join the club,” said Annabel. “You’re looking for Mac, I assume.”

“If he’s available.”

She held her palm over the mouthpiece.

“I’ll take it in my office,” Mac said, heading there. “I’ve been meaning to call you, Frank,” he said after settling in his chair and picking up the phone. “How are you?”

“Quite well, Mac, although Mary has been having problems. But that’s not why I called. I wanted to talk to you about Richard.”

“We had Richard and his lady friend, Kathryn, to dinner recently.”

“I know. He was here that afternoon and told me he’d be seeing you. Did he discuss his book with you?”

“Barely. I asked him a lot of questions, but he seemed reluctant to get into it.” Smith laughed. “I told Annabel I didn’t know many writers who didn’t want to talk about their books.”

“I’m concerned, Mac. You know about that murder at Union Station.”

“Yes, I do.”

“And that his killer has also been found dead.”

“I heard that, too, just recently. What does Rich say about it?”

“Nothing. I haven’t spoken to him since he was here. I’ve been calling but keep getting his infernal machine. He hasn’t returned my calls. That’s not surprising. We don’t always see eye to eye. But Mary’s left a message, too. You’d think he’d at least return a call to his own mother.”

Annabel brought Mac a cup of tea; he nodded his appreciation. He was glad for the distraction. Frank Marienthal’s anger about Rich’s apparent lack of responsiveness was escalating.

Smith said, “Frank, I know that Rich’s book is based upon this Louis Russo’s life with the Mafia. The question is, What does Russo’s murder mean to Rich, not necessarily in regard to his book, but personally?” He paused before asking, “Do you think Rich’s life might be in jeopardy?”

“Don’t you?”

“I don’t know. It crossed my mind, of course, but I’m afraid I haven’t given it much thought. Based upon your call, maybe I should-give it more thought. You obviously have.”

“Let me level with you, Mac. You know that Rich’s book is being published by Hobbes House.”

“Of course. I reviewed the contract.”

“I’ve been doing some research on Hobbes House. It’s a conservative publisher, a willing extension of right-wing causes.”

“And not reticent about it.”

“It doesn’t publish novels.”

“Rich told us his will be their first.”

The elder Marienthal said, “Hobbes House has put Rich’s book up on its Web site. I’ve been checking it every day. It showed up today for the first time.”

“And?”

“It doesn’t list it as a novel. It doesn’t indicate anything about whether it’s fiction or nonfiction. All it has is the cover and this descriptive line: ‘A startling, explosive exposé of murder in the highest of places.’”

Smith grunted.

“Have you seen the manuscript, Mac?”

“No. I chalked it up to some sort of writer’s paranoia. You know, don’t let anyone see a work in progress, bad luck, that sort of thing. Have you seen it?”

“No. If Russo was killed because he turned on his fellow mobsters, they made sure anything else he knew about them was dead along with him. But that doesn’t mean Rich didn’t learn things from Russo. They might want to shut him up, too.”

“I’m not sure I agree with you, Frank. Russo spilled what he knew ten or twelve years ago. If the mob did kill him, it was strictly to get even for his having turned on them.”

“But what if it wasn’t the mob that killed Russo? And there’s this murder of Russo’s assailant. Who killed him, and why?”

“Look, Frank, I understand your concern. I’d be worried, too. I’ll try and get hold of Rich. When and if I do, I’ll let you know. Maybe between us we can get him to sit down and think things out.”

“I can’t ask more than that. I’ll come down at a moment’s notice.”

“You’ll hear from me.”

Smith hung up and dialed Rich Marienthal’s number. The machine answered.

“This is Mac Smith, Rich. It’s important that I speak with you. Please call at your earliest convenience.” He left his number and ended the call.

“A problem?” Annabel asked when Mac joined her on their terrace.

He recounted the conversation.

“Rich hasn’t returned any of their calls?” she said.

“According to Frank.”

“That is worrisome,” she said. “Maybe we should go over to their apartment.”

“I thought about doing that, but I’m not sure it’s appropriate. Rich is an adult. I got the impression from Frank that their relationship might not be all it should be.”

“Still,” Annabel offered, “something could be terribly wrong.”

Mac took a minute to think about it. Chances were that everything was just fine with Richard Marienthal and his good-looking girlfriend, Kathryn Jalick. To go banging on their door might be viewed as an unwarranted intrusion into their lives. Still…

“Okay,” he said.

They took the car from the Watergate’s underground parking garage-their reserved space had added thousands of dollars to the price they paid for their apartment-and drove to Capitol Hill. Annabel waited in the car as Mac went into the foyer and buzzed the apartment shared by Rich and Kathryn Jalick. There was no response. He noted on the intercom board the apartment number for the superintendent and pushed the button. A man with an East Indian accent answered. A TV playing loudly and a crying baby could be heard in the background.

“Sorry to bother you,” Smith said, “but my wife and I have been trying to contact two of your tenants, Richard Marienthal and Kathryn Jalick.”

“They’re not home?” the super said.

“There’s no answer from their apartment. Are they away? Have you seen them recently?”

“Today.”

“Did they indicate where they might be going?”

“Oh, no, they said nothing. Just hello to me,” he yelled over the background din.

“What time was that?”

“This afternoon. At lunchtime. What was your name?”

“Smith. Mackensie Smith. I’ll leave a note in their mailbox.”

“Very good. I will tell them Mr. Smith was here looking for them.”

“I appreciate that. Thanks.”

Smith returned to the car, wrote on a piece of paper the same message he’d left on the answering machine, and placed it in the mailbox, noting that the box appeared to be empty.

Back home at the Watergate, he said to Annabel, “Well, at least they’re alive, according to the super. I’ll call and let Frank know that we tried. Meanwhile, I’ve got an hour’s worth of work to get ready for tomorrow’s class.”

“And I’m off to bed,” Annabel said, kissing his forehead. “Don’t be too late.”

Mac immersed himself in his classroom preparation and, with the exception of an occasional mental lapse during which he thought of Rich and the call from Rich’s father, managed to relegate such thoughts to the back burner.

Rich Marienthal was well aware of the message Mac left on his answering machine. He called from where he and Geoff Lowe had been having dinner at the Capitol Grill to check for messages, and heard Smith’s voice, along with those of his father and his editor in New York, Sam Greenleaf. He’d hoped to reach Kathryn and get the messages from her, but wasn’t surprised that she was gone. His departure earlier that evening to meet with Lowe had fueled a spirited argument.

“Again?” she’d said when he announced he was going out for dinner with Geoff.

“What do you mean, again? I haven’t had dinner with Geoff in a while.”

“It has nothing to do with whether it’s dinner, Rich. It has to do with my never being with you. You’re either holed up listening to your tapes or reading the proofs-God, don’t you know what’s in the book by now?-or slinking off to meet with your buddy.” She said buddy as though describing a venomous snake.

His anger was rising and he tried to keep it in check, but failed, the way he always seemed to during confrontations with his father.

“Damn it, Kathryn, you pick the worst times to get on your high horse and criticize me. You know damn well I’m getting close to making all the work pay off, and Geoff Lowe is the reason for it. Now just shut up and leave me alone.”

“Shut up? You’re telling me to shut up? Who the hell do you think you are, Rich? What ever happened to the Rich Marienthal I fell in love with?”

“He’s standing right here, Kathryn. He’s no different, but you are, and I’m sick and tired of your goddamn harping about Geoff Lowe and what I do for a living. You don’t like it, then get the hell out.”

She fought back tears as she stomped into the bedroom, threw on a jacket, grabbed her purse, and stormed from the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

He’d wanted to run after her, say he was sorry, patch it up, get her to understand that what he was going through wasn’t easy. It would be over soon and they could get back to the way it had been between them in the beginning. He wanted to tell her that he wouldn’t be involved with Lowe if he didn’t need him at the moment. The truth was-and he couldn’t admit this to Kathryn, at least not yet-was that he hated Lowe as much as she did, and couldn’t wait for it to be over, when their mutual using of each other would end.

He left the apartment twenty minutes later and walked off his anger-but not his unhappiness-on his way to the Hyatt Regency Hotel on Capitol Hill. He rode the elevator to the roof level, and entered the virtually empty Capitol View Restaurant, where Geoff Lowe sat alone at the bar, a half-consumed martini in front of him.

“Hey, buddy, how goes it?” Lowe asked as Marienthal took a stool next to him.

“All right,” Marienthal replied.

Bob McIntyre, leaning against the back bar watching a baseball game on the plasma TV, greeted Rich.

“A beer,” Rich said.

“We’ll be over there, Bobby,” Lowe said to the bartender, pointing to a leather couch in a corner of the room.

“Mei will bring it over,” McIntyre said, indicating the martini.

“So, ready for the big day?” Lowe asked after they’d settled on the couch.

“No,” Marienthal said, thinking of Kathryn and wishing he were with her.

“No?” Lowe said, laughing, as the waitress delivered his drink and Marienthal’s beer. “What do you mean, no?”

“Nothing,” Marienthal said. “Look, Geoff, considering everything that’s happened, I-”

“What everything, Rich?”

“Russo getting killed. The guy who did it getting killed. Maybe we should-”

Lowe turned abruptly, his face less than a foot from Rich’s. “Am I hearing right, Rich? Am I hearing that you’re getting cold feet? If I am-”

“Wait a minute,” Marienthal said, pulling back. “Hear me out. That’s all I ask, just hear me out.”

Lowe leaned back and sipped his drink. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’m hearing you out.”

Marienthal thought for a moment before saying, “I’m having second thoughts about Louis, Geoff.”

“Second thoughts? About what?”

“About maybe he exaggerated. You know, he was getting old and he was sick. I mean, Geoff, you’re about to take down a president.”

Lowe held up a hand to silence Marienthal. He surveyed the room before saying, “You’re wrong, Rich. We are about to do that. It doesn’t matter how old or sick Russo was. It doesn’t matter if he exaggerated. What does matter is that he had a story to tell, and he told it-to you. He’s gone. That leaves you, Rich, and the tapes of Russo, to tell the tale.” Sensing Marienthal was about to say something else, Lowe added, “And you and those tapes will tell the tale, Rich. Senator Widmer will be pleased that he could bring the truth to the American people, and you’ll have a best seller on your hands.” He indicated to Mei with his hand that he wanted the check. To Marienthal: “Drink your beer, Rich, and we’ll grab some dinner. My treat. The Capitol Grill. I’m hungry, in the mood for a porterhouse.”

Lowe drove Marienthal home after dinner. Marienthal looked up at his apartment window hoping to see lights on, see Kathryn’s shadow moving about the apartment. But it was blank, like his mood.

“Look, Rich,” Lowe said as they sat in his car, the engine running. “I understand you’re uptight, and I know why. You’re a writer, for Christ’s sake. What do you know about politics, huh? You sit at your computer and make pretty words that maybe somebody will buy. Politics ain’t pretty, my friend. It’s the ultimate war-take no prisoners, baby. You don’t think our dear president, Mr. Parmele, doesn’t shoot to kill? You think Mr. Parmele and his gang of cutthroats, his VP, cabinet, his political guru Chet Fletcher, play by the rules, follow the Geneva Convention?” He slapped Marienthal on the arm. “Yeah, Rich, it’s a war, and the stakes are big. This country either goes down the tubes with another four years of Parmele and the Democrats in control, or we get a straight-thinking Republican, one of our Republicans, in there to make things work again.”

This time he grabbed Rich’s arm. “What we are doing, my friend, is saving the republic. Hell, they might even erect a statue honoring you.”

Marienthal again looked up to the apartment window. The subject of what he was about to do hadn’t come up during dinner. Instead, Lowe had delivered his usual series of political diatribes, tossing in bits of history that might have been accurate or not, railing against the liberal establishment and the harm it had inflicted on the nation. His words from across the table had faded in and out of Rich’s consciousness. Rich was thinking of Kathryn, wondering where she was, what she was doing. He did a lot of nodding during Lowe’s speeches, responded with a series of grunts and “Sure” and “Yeah” and “I see what you mean.” But it all meant nothing to him. He wanted the evening to end so he could make it better with Kathryn.

“I’m going in,” he told Lowe, his hand on the passenger-door handle.

Lowe retained his grip on Marienthal’s arm. “I have a suggestion, buddy,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“I think the reason you’re so uptight is that you’re sitting on all the notes and tapes you got from Russo.”

“Yeah?”

“What I’m suggesting is that you give all that stuff to me. I’ll hang on to it, keep it safe until the hearing.”

Marienthal shook his head. “I’d rather keep it myself, Geoff, until the hearing.”

“You’re not listening to me, Rich. Let me have all your source material. You don’t need it anymore. Hell, the book is written. It’s about to come out.”

“I’d really rather not.”

Lowe continued as though Marienthal hadn’t said anything. “It’s better if we have those materials, Rich. That way-”

That way, if something happens to me, the hearing can still go on, Rich thought.

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

“I’ll call you in the morning,” Lowe said.

“Yeah, fine.”

“Rich.”

“Yeah?”

“This is bigger than either of us. We don’t count for anything in the scheme of things. We’re talking national security, the fate of the country. Got it?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it.”

“First thing in the morning.”

Kathryn returned after midnight. Frost permeated the apartment until they eventually sat together at their small kitchen table, cups of coffee in front of them, and talked about what had occurred. They remained there until the sun came up. By that time, a thaw had taken place. They kissed and promised to never allow an argument to progress to the stage it had.

And Rich announced a decision he’d made, with which Kathryn Jalick wholeheartedly agreed.