Murder at Union Station

SEVEN

Damn!”

Rich Marienthal shifted into neutral and slapped the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “Damn! What the hell is going on?”

“Must be an accident,” Kathryn Jalick said from the passenger seat of the Subaru Outback.

Marienthal and Kathryn had been stalled in traffic for twenty minutes on the Lee Highway, halfway between Falls Church, Virginia, and Washington, only a few miles from D.C. They’d driven to Falls Church the previous day to attend the funeral of one of Kathryn’s aunts. The post-funeral gathering was held at the home of one of the deceased’s sons, a retired FBI agent who lived in the Falls Church area and who urged Rich and Kathryn to stay over. Marienthal balked at the suggestion, but Kathryn, pleased to be with family she seldom saw, prevailed.

Now, after a late start back to D.C.-“I told you we should have left more time,” she’d chided cheerfully-they sat in the traffic jam, Marienthal’s frequently consulted wristwatch ticking off the minutes.

He leaned on the horn.

“That won’t help anything,” Kathryn said.

He clicked on the radio and tuned to all-news WTOP in search of a traffic report.

“He told me the train when he called,” Marienthal growled. “He’s due to arrive any minute, if he’s not there already.” Another slap on the wheel, harder this time, shook it, and Kathryn feared it might break. She placed her hand on his thigh to calm him, but it was a futile gesture. He squirmed in his seat, leaned out the window to look ahead, and blew the horn again, causing the driver in front to turn and gesture, not a friendly one.

While Marienthal fumed, Kathryn thought less cheerfully about the past twenty-four hours.

Lately she’d been caught between what the reality of their relationship had become and what she wanted it to be. The fact was, things had slid downhill over the past months, and she wasn’t happy about it. There hadn’t been anything tangible to point to, certainly nothing like physical abuse or a suspicion that Rich might be cheating on her. Her sister in Kansas, one of the few people in whom Kathryn confided, had asked whether Kathryn thought Rich might be seeing someone else.

“I’m sure he isn’t,” she’d replied, with a rueful laugh. “He doesn’t have time to see me, let alone somebody else. He’s so totally consumed with this book he’s working on that-”

“What is the book about?” her sister asked. “You keep saying he’s working on a book, but you never say what it’s about.”

Kathryn hated to lie to her sister. Their adult relationship had been grounded in honesty. But this was different. Rich had sworn her to secrecy, and she was determined to honor her promise to him.

“I’m really not sure,” she fibbed. “You never can be sure what a book’s about till you’ve read it. He’s very secretive about it. You know how writers are.” A nervous laugh.

“No, I don’t, Kathy. I mean, I don’t know any writers.”

“Well, Rich is protective of… he’s… well, he’s secretive, that’s all. I don’t know how else to put it.”

Her sister hesitated before asking, “Do you think you guys might break up?”

“I hope not. I know, I know, I’ve been complaining a lot lately, and I don’t mean to say bad things about Rich. He’s really a sweetheart, a terrific guy.”

“I’ll take your word for it. When do we get to meet him?”

“Soon, I hope. I-”

“You were going to bring him out here over Christmas.”

“He was-he was busy with the book.”

“The book.”

Kathryn laughed. “Yes, the book. Got to run. Love you. Later.”

She’d cut that conversation short because she realized she’d been sounding like a broken record, complaining to her sister about how Marienthal had become distant from her, perpetually distracted, it seemed. Their lovemaking, which had been frequent and satisfying early in the relationship, had become only an occasional event over the past year. Was it because he’d lost interest in her as a sexual partner? Had be become bored with her? Would he seek a more appealing partner? There were so many attractive, willing women in Washington, although she didn’t consider herself unattractive. She’d put a few pounds on since they had met, a little extra flesh on her stomach. But he’d told her he liked that, and enjoyed kissing her belly when they made love. She’d tried new hairdos; she now wore her hair short. It was coal black and rich in color and texture. Her pale skin was flawless, and she applied what little makeup she wore with some skill. Did he no longer love her dimples and what he called her “chipmunk cheeks”? She didn’t want to succumb to this self-doubt about her physical appeal. It was so pre-fem lib, so feeding into the Playboy image of the ideal woman. But she was human. She loved him and wanted to be perfect for him.

Her need to justify the changes in him trumped more rational explanations.

Maybe it was only natural that after three years, the fire that had characterized that earlier time would simmer down to embers, passion replaced by a more comfortable, less impetuous relationship. Maybe she’d been neglectful of late, taking him for granted and no longer bothering to be sexually provocative.

Like last night. They were in the guest room. She read in bed; he sat at a small desk making notes in a journal he’d started keeping. Kathryn came to him, wrapped her arms around him, and coyly suggested that making love in an ex-FBI agent’s house would be fun, something to remember. During the first year together, they’d enjoyed sex in what might be considered unconventional venues-in a bathroom at a friend’s house in the midst of a party; on a train; in a public park one night.

“Right under J. Edgar Hoover’s nosy nose.” She giggled in his ear.

He turned and kissed her on the cheek. “A rain check, huh? I want to get these notes down before I forget them, and get some sleep. Tomorrow’s the big day.”

Kathryn banked that rain check along with others she’d accumulated recently, read a few more pages, and fell asleep.

They overslept. And now they were planted in traffic on the Lee Highway, halfway between Falls Church and Washington, D.C.

Traffic began to inch forward, but a snail could easily outrun them. At least there was movement. WTOP’s traffic reporter said that there had been a multi-vehicle accident with fatalities on the Lee Highway. She felt a pang of guilt.

Marienthal’s cell phone rang.

“Yeah? Hey, Geoff. What? We’re stuck in goddamn traffic on the Lee Highway. Huh? Yeah, I know, but don’t worry about it. I’ll be there in time to meet him.” He glanced at Kathryn, who raised her eyebrows and looked away.

“Look, Geoff, we’re starting to move. Call you later. What? I told you I’d be there. Nothing to worry about. Bye.”

A few minutes later they passed the accident, a chaotic scene with ambulances and fire trucks. The burned-out remnants of a car had been pushed to the side of the road.

“How awful,” Kathryn said, averting her eyes from the grisly scene. “Nobody survived that one.”

Marienthal wasn’t listening. He passed a few slow-moving cars whose drivers were still rubbernecking and muttered something under his breath. The accident was indeed a grim scene. But he felt no pang of guilt; he had other scenes on his mind at the moment.