Murder at Union Station

THIRTY-TWO

As Adam Parmele, president of the United States, winged south in search of a second term, Alaska Senator Karl Widmer was hard at work in Washington, D.C., doing what he could to deny him another four years.

The mood in the senator’s suite was not upbeat that morning. Members of his staff knew what the tenor of the day would be the moment the aging, cantankerous Alaskan stepped through the door. They’d learned to read his walk, posture, and facial expressions, and the tone of his voice when, or if, he bothered to return their greetings.

He’d started the day by attending a morning prayer breakfast with like-minded legislators. The exhibition of kindness to his fellow human beings was quickly left behind. He ignored those saying “Good morning, sir,” as he entered his private office, flung his jacket on a couch, and took the chair behind his desk.

Carol, his lead secretary, followed him in carrying a sheaf of phone messages. “Senator,” she said, holding up papers, “these two are especially important.”

He indicated that she should put them on his desk as he picked up the phone and dialed an office within the Dirksen Building. She did as instructed, careful to keep the two priority ones separate, and quickly left. She’d been with Widmer long enough-since he first came to Congress-to know when to leave him alone. This was one of those times. She was almost to the door when he barked, “Where’s Lowe?”

She turned. “Geoff was here earlier, sir, but he left just before you arrived.”

“Get holda him. Now!”

“Yes, sir.” She’d almost said, “I’ll try,” which might have prompted something like, “Do better than try.” Or worse.

She went to where Ellen Kelly was in her office at the far end of the suite.

“Do you know where Geoff went?” she asked.

“No.”

“Try and reach him on his cell, Ellen. The senator is anxious to talk to him. I’d do it, but I’m swamped.”

“And I’m not?” Ellen said, not looking up from her computer screen.

Widmer’s secretary turned on her heel, a sour expression on her face, and went to her desk, where she dialed Lowe’s cell phone number. After six rings, a recorded voice informed the caller that the cell phone user was not available, and suggested leaving a voice mail message.

“Geoff, this is Carol. Senator Widmer is anxious to speak with you. Please call the minute you hear this.”

Lowe’s cell phone rang in his pocket, but he ignored it. He stood in the foyer of Rich and Kathy’s building and held his thumb against the buzzer for their apartment, a string of four-letter words augmenting the metallic sound.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered as he left the foyer and got into his car.

This time he answered the ring of his phone.

“Geoff, it’s Ellen.” Her voice was muffled, as though she used a hand to keep others from hearing.

“He’s not there,” Lowe said.

“Geoff, the senator wants to talk to you right away.”

“Yeah, I bet he does. I can’t find Rich. Not a sign of him at the apartment. No answer on his phone. Damn! Did you try Kathryn at work?”

“She called in sick.”

He breathed hard. “What the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know, Geoff. But the senator-”

“Look, Ellen, make some calls, huh? You’ve met some of Kathryn’s girlfriends. See if you can find somebody who knows where the hell she is. Knows where Rich is.”

“The senator-”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. We have to find Rich. I told you I tried to get him to give me the tapes and notes, and I thought he was going to. We need him and those tapes. That’s why Widmer wants to see me. He wants to know whether I have them.”

“I’ll make calls.”

“Good. Tell Widmer I’ll be back in an hour. Tell him I-I’m pulling together top secret materials for the hearing. Tell him everything is on track.”

He ended the call and dialed 411, requesting the number for Mackensie Smith, in the Watergate Apartments.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Smith?”

“Yes.”

“This is Geoff Lowe, Mr. Smith. I’m a friend of Rich Marienthal.”

“Oh, yes. He’s mentioned you.”

“And he often speaks of you. I know you handled his book contract.”

“I wouldn’t say I handled it. Looked it over. What can I do for you?”

“I’ve been trying to get hold of Rich, Mr. Smith. I thought you might know how I can reach him.”

“Sorry, but I’m no help. You’re not the only one looking for him.”

Lowe forced a laugh. “The vanishing author. Well, I thought it was worth a try.”

“If I do hear from him, I’ll mention you’re looking for him.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that. Have a good day, and sorry to have bothered you.”

Another call went to Hobbes House in New York. “This is Geoff Lowe, on Senator Karl Widmer’s senior staff,” he told the receptionist. “It’s important I speak with Sam Greenleaf.”

Greenleaf came on the line. “I’m glad you called,” he said. “I’ve left three messages on Rich’s machine. You don’t know where he is?”

“No. That’s why I’m calling.”

“Russo’s murder was a hell of a shock.”

“Tell me about it. Look, not having Russo testify in person at the hearings is a blow. But it’s not fatal-as long as we have Rich’s taped interviews with him.”

“And Rich to validate the recordings.”

“That, too. What’s the status of the book?”

“Funny you should ask. I have the first copies off the press on my desk. They arrived this morning. They look great. I’m having a courier deliver a dozen to you at the senator’s office.”

“When will you start promoting?” Lowe asked.

“Immediately. But I don’t think we’ll have to do much.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re already getting calls from media. Fox News seems to know the whole story-or at least the guts of it. Our publicity people got a call this morning from a Fox reporter in Washington. Looks like your dam has developed some leaks-big ones.”

“That’s okay. If you hear from Marienthal, please call me any time, day or night. Frankly, I’m pretty damned upset with Rich. I sent him and his book to you in the first place, and he pulls this crap on me. Here’s my cell number.”

“Good luck with your hearings, Geoff. Looks like we might have a best seller on our hands, and you’ve got an issue to run with.”

Lowe considered trying to reach Marienthal’s father in New York, but thought better of it. He checked his watch. No sense in postponing Widmer any longer. He’d have to fudge it with his boss, keep him thinking everything was going smoothly. Widmer had demanded that Lowe get the tapes and notes from Marienthal-which had triggered Lowe’s not very subtle suggestion to Marienthal that he turn them over in advance of the hearings.

His stomach knotted as he drove back to Capitol Hill.

“How’s Vinny?” Bret Mullin was asked as he entered the detectives’ bullpen.

“Okay. He’ll be okay. Gimpy for a while. Any luck in finding the shooter?”

“No, but we’ve got a description from witnesses. An APB went out this morning.”

“Good.”

After phone messages-none worth answering, he decided-Mullin went to Phil Leshin’s office, where his superior was being briefed on serious crimes that had been committed overnight. Mullin waited outside until the briefing officers left.

“What’s up?” Leshin asked.

“I’ve got the name of the guy from Union Station.”

“What guy?”

“The one who knew Louis Russo’s name.”

“Bret, I told you to drop it.”

“I did drop it, Phil,” Mullin said, taking a chair across the desk. “It was dumped in my lap.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. The woman who came from Tel Aviv to claim the body-Sasha Levine-she told me who it was. His name’s Richard Marienthal. He’s a writer who was working on a book with Russo.”

“A book? What kind of book?”

Mullin shrugged. “I didn’t get into that with her. But I know who he is, where he lives. I think we ought to bring him in as a material witness.”

Leshin muttered something under his breath and ran a hand over his shaved head. He said to Mullin, “Do I speak in some foreign tongue, Bret? Did you not understand me when I said to drop it? The Russo case is closed. Officially closed.”

“No,” Mullin said, “I understood what you said. But let me ask you a question.”

“Make it quick.”

“Why has it been dropped? On whose orders?”

“On my orders.”

“Yeah, but who told you to drop it?”

Leshin got up from behind the desk, went to the door, and opened it. “I’m pairing you up with Bayliss.”

“Thanks,” Mullin said, his tone indicating he meant anything but. He left Leshin’s office and returned to his desk, where his new partner, a recently promoted detective named Craig Bayliss, waited.

“Looks like you’ve drawn me,” the freckle-faced redhead said, offering a wide smile.

“What’d I do to get so lucky?” Mullin said. To his mind, the younger cop looked like Alfred E. Neuman from the old Mad magazine days, right down to the small void between his front teeth. Mullin picked up a folder containing the preliminary report on the shooting of Vinnie Accurso, including the description provided by witnesses. He and Bayliss would join dozens of other detectives that day with one assignment: find the assailant. Cop shot? All hands on deck.

“Want me to drive?” Bayliss asked as they walked to their assigned unmarked car.

“No. I’ll drive. And do me a favor.”

“Sure, Bret.”

“Don’t talk a lot, okay?”

Actually, Mullin’s mood had been good earlier that morning.

After failing to make contact with Rich Marienthal at his apartment building the previous evening, he’d made a fast stop at his apartment to freshen up and to change clothes in anticipation of dinner with Sasha Levine. She was in the hotel lobby when he arrived, the ubiquitous cigarette going from hand to mouth and back again. She greeted him warmly, and entered his car through the door he held open, dropping the partially finished Camel in the gutter.

“I’m really glad you could have dinner with me,” he said, joining the flow of traffic.

“It is good of you to ask me,” she said.

“You in the mood for anything special?” he asked. “Some kind of ethnic food, maybe? Middle Eastern or something like that?”

“I will be happy wherever we go,” she replied, sounding as though she meant it.

He was glad she was open to suggestions. Although he would have taken her to any restaurant that pleased her, he’d never been keen on food from other countries, except occasionally Italian and Mexican now and then. They went to The Prime Rib on K Street, where the bartenders and manager greeted him-and where he knew what would be on his plate.

Once settled in a black leather banquette, Sasha, who wore a black skirt and sweater and a red blazer with gold buttons, took in her surroundings-brass-trimmed black walls and leopard-skin carpeting, the waiters in black tie, and a tuxedoed pianist with flowing white hair playing nostalgic tunes on a glass-topped grand piano.

“I feel like part of the decor,” she said.

Mullin laughed. “Yeah, you wore the right thing,” he said. “You look great.”

“Thank you,” she said. “This must be a very expensive restaurant.”

He waved her concerns away. “No problem,” he said.

“I had upsetting news today,” she said.

“Oh? What happened?”

“A friend in Tel Aviv called. Someone broke into my apartment.”

“I’m sorry. What’d they do, steal stuff?”

“My friend doesn’t think so. Maybe it was things Louis had that they were looking for.”

Mullin nodded. “He had important stuff there, papers, money?”

“I don’t really know. He didn’t discuss his business with me.”

“So when are you taking Mr. Russo back with you to Israel?”

“Tomorrow. I have made the arrangements today with the airline and your police doctor. Tomorrow-” She fell silent and her eyes became moist.

Mullin placed his hand on hers. “Must be tough,” he said.

She shook her head and smiled. “It is life, that’s all. Louis used to say dying was the price you pay for living.”

“Sounds like he was a philosopher or something.”

“He was a much smarter man than many thought. Because he did not have a formal education and did bad things early in his life, people thought he wasn’t intelligent. But he was. I thought such things, too, when I first met him. But I came to know a gentle man who liked to read and who thought deeply about many things.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Sasha. I guess you got to know him pretty good, living with him for so many years.”

A waiter interrupted to take their drink orders.

“A glass of white Zinfandel,” she said.

“I’ll have a glass of wine, too,” said Mullin. “Red. A house red.” He turned back to her. “Sorry you couldn’t get hold of your writer friend, Marienthal,” he said.

“I tried many times. He must be away on a trip.”

“Yeah, probably.”

When the waiter returned with their drinks, they clinked the rims of their glasses.

“Hate to see you leave,” Mullin said.

“Thank you. Maybe one day I will come back.”

“That’d be good. What was this book Mr. Marienthal was writing with your-with Mr. Russo?”

She sighed deeply, picked up her wine in both hands, and sat back in the banquette.

“You don’t have to say if you don’t want to,” he said.

Another sigh, more prolonged this time. “I really don’t know much,” she said, taking a tiny sip. “When Louis decided to do the book with Rich, he told me he didn’t want me to know anything about what would be in it.”

“How come?”

“He said he wanted to protect me.”

“From what?”

She came forward and forced a smile. “It is better we don’t talk about it. What do you recommend at this restaurant?”

“Well,” he said, pleased to be asked, “I usually have the prime rib. They serve real, fresh horseradish with it, you know? Lots of people have the crab. Crab Imperial, they call it, baked in a shell with other stuff.”

“That sounds very good.”

Mullin was relieved that as the evening progressed, Sasha became more talkative, sparing him from having to carry the conversation. She spoke of her childhood in Budapest, her family and schooling, and her decision to move to Israel. Mullin was sorely tempted to order another drink, something stronger than wine this time, but successfully fought the urge. He wanted very much to impress this lady from Tel Aviv, to have her like and respect him. Getting drunk wouldn’t accomplish that.

The restaurant’s subdued lighting cast a flattering glow over Sasha, and it crossed Mullin’s mind as they ate and talked that she looked a little like his ex-wife, not so much in their features, but their coloring was certainly similar. Mullin had always been attracted to women with dusky skin and dark hair. Maybe it was the contrast with his blotchy, fair skin that appealed. Sasha’s eyes were large and almost black, her lips sensually full. She had a way of looking directly at him as she spoke, as though seeing beyond his facade into what he was thinking and feeling.

He was also wondering what had attracted her to an old former mobster, a killer and leg-breaker, living in Israel like a hunted animal, never sure whether the next passing car contained those who would avenge his traitorous act. Did it represent some character flaw in her? Or was it a middle-aged woman’s desperation-any man in a storm? He didn’t ask.

“Tell me more about this writer,” he said. “Maybe I’ll get to meet him. He lives here in D.C.?”

“Yes. Would you like his address?”

“No, I-sure. That’d be great. I’ll look him up sometime. You must have talked to him after the murder.”

“He called once. I said I would see him when I came here to claim the body. I suppose that will have to be another time.”

They sat with their own silent musings as the waiter served coffee, no dessert. Carnal thoughts came and went for Mullin, and were troubling. It had been a while since he’d been intimate with a woman, and visions of being naked with Sasha were vivid and stirring. But she was here to take home the body of a man with whom she’d lived for a long time. Don’t make an ass of yourself.

They declined after-dinner drinks on the house, and he drove her back to the hotel.

“This was lovely,” she said as he walked her into the lobby. “I did not expect to be entertained by one of the city’s best policemen.”

“Strictly unofficial,” he said.

“Good night,” she said.

“I’ll walk you upstairs, make sure you’re safe.”

“Oh, that isn’t necessary. I-”

“No, no, I insist,” he said, taking her elbow and moving to the elevators. “There’s a lot of crime, you know, especially against women. I’d feel better knowing you’re okay.”

They rode to her floor. She unlocked the door, opened it, and flipped the light switch. He moved past her and entered the room first, glancing into the bathroom, the light of which had been left on, then moving farther inside. She watched him with admiring amusement. He was checking out the room the way the police did in the movies. Would he pull out his gun and look under the bed?

“All clear?” she asked playfully.

“What?” he said, turning to where she still stood in the empty doorway. He grinned and shrugged. “Too many years a cop,” he said. “Just wanted to make sure you’d be all right.”

“I will be fine,” she said, turning on lamps. “Living in Israel teaches you to not be afraid.”

“I guess it does,” he said, relieved that a sudden strong urge for a drink passed. “I just figured if somebody broke into your apartment back home, they might-”

“Who is they?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. See, Sasha, you’re here in Washington because your-”

“My boyfriend? My lover? Either is fine.”

Boyfriend didn’t seem right to him for a middle-aged woman. “Yeah. Your lover comes here and got killed, so that could mean somebody might come after you, too.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Better safe than sorry,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’ll stay awhile,” he said.

“That is very kind of you,” she said. “You are a very sweet man. I am very tired. I would like to spend more time with you, but-”

“No, no,” he said, standing. “You don’t have to explain. I’m sure you’ll be just fine.” He went to the door.

“Thank you for everything,” she said, joining him there. “It was a lovely evening.”

“Glad you liked it,” he said. “Here’s my home phone number.” He handed her his card. “I’m going straight home. You call any time, any hour, you need something. Got that?”

“Yes. I’ve got that.”

“And don’t let anybody in the room.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Just keep things locked up, that’s all.”

She smiled, touched his chest, and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Good night, Detective Mr. Bret Mullin,” she said.

“Good night.”

He did as promised, went straight home. After feeding Magnum, he opened a kitchen cabinet and pulled down a half-filled bottle of vodka, put ice in a glass, and poured vodka over the cubes. But instead of drinking it, he poured it in the sink, went to the living room, switched on the TV, and turned it off again. Just a goddamn habit, he told himself. Like smoking. He wished she didn’t smoke. Who needs another drink? Not me!

He went to bed desperately hanging on to that thought.