Murder at Union Station

FORTY-TWO

It is so good to see you,” Marienthal said when Kathryn walked through the door to the apartment. They sustained their embrace and kissed until Marienthal stepped back, his hands on her shoulders, and smiled. “You look so sexy in those glasses.”

“Stop it,” she said. “I sure don’t feel sexy. But I am relieved to see you. We’re going to New York?”

“Not us. I’m going.”

She looked at him quizzically.

He led her into the small kitchen, where they sat at the table. He took her hands in his and said, “I owe you a big apology, Kate.”

“For what?”

“For being blind to reality. For being greedy. For forgetting who I really am.”

She wiped away a tear that had escaped her right eye and smiled. “You were all of those things, Rich, and maybe more. But that’s past tense.”

“You bet it is. Here’s what I want to do.”

It took him only five minutes to outline his plans for her. When he was finished, he asked, “Make sense?”

“I think so,” she said.

“Good. Let’s get going.”

He went to a small corkboard on which Winard had pinned up a typewritten list of useful phone numbers, dialed the one for a local cab company, and gave the dispatcher the address.

Five minutes later, he picked up his canvas shoulder bag from the floor, opened the front door, and locked it behind them, and they went up the narrow stairs to the front foyer. Marienthal looked through a small window. “The cab’s here,” he said.

They went directly to the taxi. Marienthal tapped on the front passenger window. The driver lowered it slightly, and Marienthal said in a loud voice, “Union Station.”

Stripling and Lowe watched the departure of Rich and Kathryn from their respective vantage points. Stripling started his engine and fell in behind the cab. Lowe left the tree and stood helplessly on the sidewalk. He’d heard Marienthal say, “Union Station,” but was without transportation.

Marienthal looked back before the cab turned the corner.

“Did you see that guy?” he asked Kathryn.

“What guy?”

“Up the block from the house. It looked like Geoff.”

She, too, looked back, but by then they were off 16th Street. “Are you sure?” she asked.

“No, but I think it was.”

Lowe walked south on 16th until finding a cab. “Union Station,” he said. “I’m in a rush.”

The driver laughed without mirth. “You guys slay me,” he said. “You got to catch a train? Leave earlier! I’m not getting a ticket because you don’t leave early enough.” He repeated: “Slays me.”

It just might, thought Lowe.

Stripling pulled into a vacant one-hour parking spot near the station, jumped out of the car, and shoved quarters into the meter. Hopefully, he’d be back before the hour was up. If not, Roper could pay for the ticket and tow charges. He ran across the plaza and reached the main entrance just as Marienthal had finished paying their driver and he and Kathryn headed inside. Told Marienthal planned to travel to New York, Stripling assumed the couple would go to one of Amtrak’s booths, which they did. Marienthal and Kathryn stood in a short line in front of the ticket counter and checked the departure board. The next train to New York was scheduled to leave in fifteen minutes. Stripling fell in behind them, his attention focused on the canvas shoulder bag Marienthal carried.

What now? Should he make a grab for the bag and run? Not a good idea. Too many people, including plenty of security guards patrolling the area. Besides, it wasn’t his MO to play purse snatcher. His best bet, he decided, was to stay close and pick a moment when there were fewer people. He was certain the girlfriend wouldn’t pose a problem, although you never knew about people. People like him. He’d been mistaken over the years for a bank clerk, an insurance salesman, and worse. He liked it that way, the faceless face in the crowd, that nondescript guy in the drab suit who was probably married to a domineering woman, a milquetoast of the first order.

He couldn’t hear the transaction between Marienthal and the ticket agent, but when it was completed, Marienthal backed away from the counter and stepped on Stripling’s foot.

“Sorry,” said Marienthal.

“It’s okay,” said Stripling.

“Sir?” the agent said to Stripling.

“What? Oh, right. Round-trip to New York.”

As he waited for the ticket to be issued, he kept his eye on Marienthal and Kathryn, who were walking in the direction of Amtrak’s departure gates. He followed, keeping a respectful distance, until they stopped short of the gate. Marienthal reached in the pocket of his safari jacket and handed Kathryn something small, which she slipped into her purse. After a final embrace, Marienthal headed for the waiting train, leaving Kathryn standing there. Had Marienthal handed the shoulder bag to her, Stripling would have been faced with a dilemma. But he hadn’t.

He followed Marienthal to the train and boarded the same car. When the writer chose a seat, he took the one directly behind him.

Marienthal had laid his canvas bag on the seat next to him; Stripling could see it through the space between seats. He tried to come up with some ruse to cause Marienthal to get up from his seat, leaving the bag behind, but couldn’t conjure anything that made sense. He didn’t have much time to consider it because the doors to the train closed and an announcement was made that the train to New York was now leaving.

Geoff Lowe looked like a man who’d just escaped a mugging. He was drenched with sweat, his white shirt pulled loose from his pants, his hair drooping over his ears in wet strands. He stood in the station’s main hall. He went in the direction of the Amtrak ticket counter, passing President Cigars and the Swatch Watch shop, muttering under his breath and trying not to bump into the steady flow of people coming in both directions. He circumvented the ticket counter and turned left in front of Exclusive Shoe Shine.

“Shine, sir?” Joe Jenks asked.

Lowe ignored him and kept walking, causing Jenks to say to one of the other bootblacks, “Looks like the man needs a shower more than a shine.”

Lowe had almost reached the gates when he spotted Kathryn Jalick coming from a public phone booth near the bank of public lockers. She carried a shopping bag she’d bought from the travel store near where she and Rich had parted.

He moved quickly to cut her off.

“Geoff?” she said, startled at his sudden appearance.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“Rich? He’s-he’s on his way to New York.”

“New York? Why’s he going there?”

“I-”

“Is he going to Hobbes House?”

“I don’t know.”

“He has the tapes with him?”

“I’m sorry, Geoff, but I’m late for an appointment,” she said, walking away.

He stayed at her side. “He has the tapes. Right?”

“Yes. He has the tapes,” she responded, picking up her pace in the direction of the Main Hall and Massachusetts Avenue.

He grabbed her arm. “Kathryn,” he said, “don’t play games with me. I want those tapes. I need those tapes.”

“Get your hands off me,” she snapped, shaking him loose and continuing to walk.

He kept stride with her. “Rich wouldn’t have his book contract if it hadn’t been for me,” he said. “I set it up for him. He owes me!”

They reached Mass Avenue, where a dozen cabs awaited passengers. The dispatcher opened the door to the first taxi in line and Kathryn jumped in. So did Lowe.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked.

“I’m sticking with you, Kathryn. You’ll be in touch with Rich. He has the tapes. I want them. I’m hanging in with you until I get them.”

The cabdriver, tired of the delay, turned and asked, “You want a taxi or a marriage counselor?”

Kathryn’s nostrils flared as she glared at Lowe. “The Watergate Apartments,” she told the driver through clenched teeth.

The train hadn’t gone far when Stripling’s cell phone sounded.

“Yeah?”

“Subject’s female partner reported en route to Watergate apartment.” The terse message ended with a sharp click.

Stripling knew the Watergate was Mackensie Smith’s apartment. It occurred to him that no one knew he was on a train headed for New York, seated behind the subject of the search, Richard Marienthal-or that he was within reach of the infamous tapes at the heart of the search. Not that it mattered-except to the cop who would have his car towed. His whereabouts were otherwise irrelevant. What did matter was taking possession of the tapes and delivering them to Curly and Moe, or Mark Roper, or Gertrude Klaus, or whoever else wanted them.

He surveyed the rest of the car. No wonder Amtrak was losing money, he thought. There were only three other passengers, two women working on laptops seated at the far end of the car and a man at the opposite end who’d dozed off, his head resting against the window.

“We’ll shortly be arriving at Baltimore International Airport,” a voice soon announced over the PA system. “Passengers getting off at that station should be sure to gather any personal belongings.”

Stripling’s mind now shifted into a higher gear. How many new passengers would board this car at Baltimore? Would Marienthal decide to change his seat, perhaps move to another, more crowded car? Was there anything to be gained by waiting to arrive in New York before making his move to snatch the bag? He decided there wasn’t. He’d been on this train before. The Baltimore airport stop would be a brief one, no more than a few minutes.

This was the time to act.

When the train stopped and the doors opened, he would move quickly and definitely. He would get up, step to where Marienthal sat, press the gun to the writer’s head, simultaneously grab the bag from the seat, and run from the car. It would take only seconds. He mentally timed out his moves. Two seconds to get from his seat to Marienthal, two seconds to brandish the gun and swipe the bag, three seconds to run from the seat to the door. Seven seconds in all. It would happen so fast that by the time Marienthal recovered from the initial shock of a gun at his head, Stripling would be gone, down the stairs from the platform and into the crowd. Marienthal wouldn’t even see who’d taken the bag. And if he did, he’d never be able to mentally process the man he’d seen in those fleeting two seconds of face-to-face contact.

The train slowed as it neared the station, and Stripling tensed. He slipped his hand beneath his suit jacket and wrapped his fingers around the stock of the Smith & Wesson. Just don’t make a dumb move, he silently warned Marienthal. Don’t get hurt over some silly tapes.

Almost there.

Marienthal stood.

Stripling blinked. What was Marienthal about to do, get off at the Baltimore airport station?

Marienthal stood in the aisle next to his seat, looked down at his shoulder bag, and headed up the aisle toward the restrooms. It took Stripling a moment to shake off his surprise. He looked back and saw Marienthal disappear into one of the lavatories. The train came to a noisy stop, and Stripling heard the whoosh of doors opening. He jumped up, reached over Marienthal’s seat back, grabbed the bag by its shoulder strap, walked quickly from the train, went down the steps two at a time, and hailed a waiting taxi.

“Where to?” he was asked by the driver.

“The nearest car rental agency,” Stripling replied, settling back and smiling.

He was delivered to a Hertz office, where he rented a midsize sedan, drove from the garage, and headed for the highway leading back to Washington. While stopped at a light, he unzipped the bag and shoved his hand inside. What he felt was soft, cloth. He pulled two pairs of socks and shorts from the bag, followed by a black T-shirt, a handkerchief, and a leather kit containing toiletries.

“What the hell?” he muttered.

The light had turned green; drivers behind him leaned on their horns. He went through the intersection, pulled to the curb, and surveyed what he’d taken from the bag. “Son of a bitch!” he said loudly, flinging the clothing to the floor. “Son of a bitch.”