Murder at Union Station

THIRTY-SEVEN

Mullin’s head had fallen forward to his chest when a sharp tap on his window snapped him to consciousness. He looked up into the face of a uniformed police officer and rolled down the window, allowing wind-driven rain to splash against his face.

“You sick or something?” the cop asked.

“Sick? Nah.”

“Then move it. This is a no-parking zone.”

Mullin reached into his jacket pocket. The cop touched his holster, but Mullin quickly produced his shield.

“You on assignment?” the cop asked.

“Yeah. Thanks for stopping by.”

The officer had no sooner walked away than Mullin saw Stripling pull up on the opposite side of the street, half a block down from the hotel. Stripling locked the car, ran down the street, and entered the hotel. Mullin looked around the interior of his vehicle. Why was there never an umbrella when you needed one? There were half a dozen back in the apartment. He spotted a beat-up NY Yankees baseball cap on the backseat, twisted with difficulty to grab it, slammed it on his head, and went to Stripling’s car. He looked up and down the street before trying the front passenger door. Locked. He leaned close to the tinted windows and attempted to see inside, but saw only indistinguishable images. Concerned that Stripling and Sasha might leave the hotel and come to the car, he retreated to his own vehicle. He wished he’d picked up a newspaper or magazine, something to kill the time. He hadn’t read a book in years.

He tuned the radio to all-news WTOP, where an announcer intoned that the stormy weather was expected to end by late afternoon, with another heat wave to push its way into the area the next day. Commercials followed. Then the day’s top stories were repeated.

“This is Dave Stewart with an update on the breaking story involving the Mafia’s alleged role in the assassination more than twenty years ago of Chilean dictator Constantine Eliana. A soon-to-be-published book by Washington writer Richard Marienthal claims that the assassination in 1985 was carried out under a contract given a New York Mafia family by the Central Intelligence Agency. The allegation comes from Louis Russo, the Mafia member who claims to have pulled the trigger in that assassination, and who himself was murdered in Union Station only days ago. Russo, who had traveled here to Washington from Israel, where he’d been living under the federal witness protection program, was to have testified at a hearing conducted by Alaska Senator Karl Widmer into the intelligence agency’s possible role in the assassination. It’s further alleged in the book that President Adam Parmele, then head of the CIA, had personally approved of the assassination. Attempts to reach Marienthal through his publisher and other sources have been unsuccessful. There has been no statement from the White House. A statement issued by Senator Widmer’s press secretary says only that such hearings have been planned and that they will go forward despite Russo’s death. Tapes of him recounting the story will be available, according to the statement. Stay tuned for further updates as we receive them.”

Mullin spent the next forty-five minutes mulling over what he’d heard. The official MPD finding-that Russo had been murdered by organized crime in retaliation for his testimony against them-made less sense than ever to the veteran detective. Had it happened somewhere else-Mexico, Israel, New York, or Los Angeles-he might have bought it. If it had been a revenge killing, why would they have waited until Russo had reached the place where he was scheduled to tell all? And why would the mob draw attention to itself at this stage, and after all these years, by rubbing out a dying turncoat? Mobsters weren’t the brightest bulbs in the drawer, but they did have a pretty good sense of self-preservation despite the decimation of the Mafia leadership.

The Parmele administration had the most to lose had Russo lived and gone before the committee. That was obvious. But the contemplation that someone in that administration might have had something to do with Russo’s murder was too difficult to accept, even for the terminally cynical Bret Mullin.

Sasha had mentioned at dinner that Russo had been working with this writer guy Marienthal on a book. Now, thanks to WTOP, Mullin knew what the book was about. Even ruling out the mob, whoever killed Russo might have Marienthal in his crosshairs, too. As far as Mullin knew, Marienthal was the only one who could corroborate what Russo had said. Tapes? Did Marienthal have them? Or had he already turned them over to Senator Widmer for use at his hearings?

Who’d killed the Haitian, Leon LeClaire, Russo’s assassin? Probably the same people who’d hired him as shooter. Eliminating a shooter to ensure his silence was SOP in criminal circles.

These thoughts came and went as Mullin drank cold coffee and nibbled the last doughnut, which was rapidly growing soggy in the humid air. Distracted by his thoughts, he looked across to the hotel to check that Stripling’s car was still parked at the curb. It was. Stripling and Sasha were obviously having breakfast.

Ten minutes later, Stripling came out and stood beneath an overhang, casually taking in the street and the passersby. Eventually he looked up at the gray sky, held a newspaper over his head, and went to his car, got in, and drove away. Mullin started his engine, made an illegal U-turn, and fell in behind.

He didn’t know why he was following Stripling, a.k.a. Charlie Simmons, or whatever other names he used. He just knew he had to. Who was this guy? What connection did he have with Russo and LeClaire and Widmer? He wasn’t who he represented himself to be to Sasha. Why? Was the break-in of her apartment in Tel Aviv connected in some way?

Stripling drove slowly, which made it easy for Mullin to keep pace. He eventually found a parking space on Tenth Street and walked quickly to the corner of Constitution. He entered the Department of Justice Building. He came out minutes later, got in his car, and drove to E Street, between Ninth and Tenth Streets, parked in a garage, came back on to the street and disappeared inside the J. Edgar Hoover Building, home to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

“He’s Bureau?” Mullin asked aloud in the confines of his car. “He’s official, somehow.”

Why would the Bureau be involved? The Russo and LeClaire killings had been handled as local matters, with the MPD investigating. Of course, he reasoned, seeing Stripling enter the FBI building didn’t necessarily mean he was an employee. But he was obviously working for somebody interested in the cases. His computer file didn’t indicate that he held a private investigator’s license.

He’d claimed to Sasha that he was an old friend of Richard Marienthal. Mullin had seen him leaving Marienthal’s apartment building, but he obviously hadn’t been with the writer. No one was home; Mullin’s attempt through the superintendent verified that.

He dialed the number for the Lincoln Suites Hotel on his cell phone and was connected with Sasha Levine’s room.

“Hi. It’s Detective Bret Mullin.”

He couldn’t see her smile at his adding his title. She knew who he was without it. “Hello,” she said.

“How was your breakfast?” he asked.

“It was fine.”

He sensed a reservation in her answer. “You don’t sound too sure,” he said.

She forced a small laugh. “No, no, it was all right. I-”

“What?”

“I don’t believe Charlie Simmons is who he said he was.”

“Is that so? How come?”

“He seemed to want to know so much about Richard and his interviews with Louis. It was nothing specific. I just didn’t believe he was Richard’s good friend as he said he was. The tapes. The tapes of the interviews. That’s all he seemed to care about.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing. What could I tell him? I know nothing except that Richard used a tape recorder when he spoke with Louis. I was never present and never heard any of the tapes.”

“Marienthal has them?” Mullin said.

“I assume he does.”

“Did Mr. So-called Simmons tell you anything about himself, where he works?”

“No. I didn’t ask such things.”

“No, of course you didn’t. Why would you? Look, he’s planning to come back and see you before you head home?”

“No.”

“Good. What time did you say you were leaving for the airport?”

“My plane is at eleven. Louis’s remains will have been delivered to the airport. I will leave at nine, nine-thirty?”

“Better make it earlier than that, with security and all. Look, I’m not doing anything tonight. I’ll drive you out there. Maybe we can have dinner at the airport. They’ve got some pretty good restaurants.”

“That is so kind but-”

“How about I pick you up at six? Make it five-thirty. No sense being in a rush.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure. In the meantime, stay close to your room, okay? If Simmons calls again, tell him you’re busy. Same goes for the writer, Marienthal, anybody.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Simmons ain’t what he says he was. You picked up on that. Simmons isn’t even his real name.”

“It isn’t?”

“Trust me. Five-thirty. I’ll be on time.”

After another hour of waiting for Stripling to return, Mullin drove to MPD’s administrative offices, where he borrowed four thousand dollars against his credit union account. He went home, showered, heated up a slice of frozen pizza, wrote a short note to his daughter and signed it Love, Dad, put the check and the note in an envelope and addressed it to Cynthia in Denver. He called the hospital. Katie Accurso answered.

“It’s Bret. How’s the patient?”

“Doing fine, Bret. He’s coming home tomorrow.”

“Sorry I didn’t get over to see him. Put him on.”

“Can’t. He’s with a physical therapist planning his recuperation. It’ll take a while.”

“He’s got nothing but time.”

“How are you getting along without him?”

“I’d be doing better if Vinnie hadn’t taken that bullet. These new detectives get dumber every day.”

She laughed.

“How was the fruit?”

“The fruit? Oh, great. Vinnie’s eaten most of it.”

“Why am I not surprised? You take care, Katie. Give the Italian stallion a hug for me.”

“Shall do.”

He dressed in a fresh suit, shirt, and tie, talked to Magnum for a few minutes, and checked his watch. He had time to kill before picking up Sasha. Although his shoes had recently been polished, he decided a shine was in order and drove to Union Station, stopping at a mailbox to mail the check.

Bootblack Joe Jenks had just finished with a customer as Mullin approached. He climbed up into Jenks’s chair and rolled up his trouser cuffs.

“Mullin, my man,” Jenks said, pulling his tools from the drawer beneath the chair. “How goes it?”

“Not bad, Joe. You?”

“Business is good. Long as the AC keeps working in here, people come to cool off. Might as well get their shoes shined, is the way I figure they see it. Tips’ve been good, too. ’Course, today’s slow with the rain, but looks like it’s clearing out there.”

“Looks like it. Shine ’em up good, huh. I’ve got a heavy date tonight.”

“Good for you, man. Who’s the lucky lady?”

“You wouldn’t know her. She’s foreign. Speaks a lot of different languages.”

“Uh-huh. Brainy type, huh?”

“Yup. Good-looking, too.”

“Best kind, beauty and brains. I’ve known a few of them myself. Two. Or maybe three.”

“I bet you have.”

He paid Jenks and tipped well despite the bootblack’s insistence that it was on the house. Mullin went to the Greenworks Flower Shop on the other side of the Amtrak ticket counter from Exclusive Shoe Shine and bought a small, colorful bouquet. “These won’t wilt, will they?” he asked the shopkeeper. “I mean, they’ll still look nice a couple of hours from now.”

Assured they would last, he paid and went to where he’d parked in a no-parking zone, his MPD permit displayed on the sun visor. The rain had stopped, but he’d stepped in a puddle on his way to the car and wiped off his shoes with Kleenex from the glove compartment. He still had time before picking up Sasha. He found the phone number he had for Richard Marienthal and dialed it on his cell phone. The number was busy. The hell with it, he thought. Might as well be early at the hotel and maybe have a drink at the bar before hooking up with Sasha. After checking that he had breath mints, he drove off, the fragrance of the flowers on the passenger seat filling the car.

Mullin’s attempt to call the apartment shared by Marienthal and Kathryn Jalick didn’t go unnoticed by Kathryn. While he heard a busy signal, she heard through Call Waiting that someone was trying to reach her. But she opted to not put the current caller on hold in order to answer the second call. She was on the line with Rich.

She’d intended to go to work at the Library of Congress the day after she and Marienthal left the River Inn and he’d gone off to wherever he was. But she awoke on edge after a few hours of fitful sleep, and decided to stay at home. As the day progressed, she questioned that decision. Work would have taken her mind off the situation in which she’d found herself. Being in the apartment served as a reminder of recent events and made her captive to a succession of phone calls to which she had to respond-truthfully, it turned out, because Rich had refused to tell her where he’d be staying. When she told callers she didn’t know where he was, she meant it.

Although she hadn’t kept track of the number of calls she took that day, she later estimated it to be more than twenty, many from the media.

Rich’s father had called from New York.

“Hello, Mr. Marienthal,” she’d said after he’d identified himself.

“Is Rich there?” he’d asked, ignoring her greeting.

“No, not at the moment.”

“I’ve left messages,” he said. “Why hasn’t Rich returned my calls?”

“Mr. Marienthal, I-”

“Look, Ms. Jalick, I don’t wish to be short with you, but there’s obviously something terribly wrong. Is Rich ill? Has he been in an accident?”

She tried to laugh the question away. “No, of course not,” she said. “He’s off researching another book. That’s all I know.”

Marienthal’s father’s silence loudly proclaimed that he didn’t believe her. He said, “I’m coming down to Washington. I’m sure you have a way of reaching Richard. Tell him I’ll be there and he must talk with me. This mess he’s gotten himself into goes beyond him. We’re getting calls here from the media, which is very stressful to his mother, who’s not well.”

“I-”

There was a click on the New York end.

Sam Greenleaf, Marienthal’s editor at Hobbes House, called twice.

“I’ve got to get hold of Rich,” he told Kathryn on the first call. “He’s a hot topic with the media. The Today show, CNN, Hannity & Colmes, Inside Edition. Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, frustration in her voice.

“Come on, Ms. Jalick. His book is just coming out, the media is salivating to promote it, and he’s nowhere to found? Give me a break. What does he think, that by playing hard to get he hypes interest in the book? He’s wrong. You have to-”

“I don’t want to be rude, Mr. Greenleaf, but I’m going to end this call. I do not know where Richard is. Period. End of story.”

He gruffly signed off and hung up. The phone rang again a few seconds later.

“Sam Greenleaf again. I’m sorry if I sounded angry with you. Look, there’s more to this than just publishing and selling a book. I’m sure you’re aware of the Widmer hearings that are scheduled.”

“Yes, I’ve heard.”

“I won’t go into the details, Ms. Jalick, but Rich and Louis Russo were to be a big part of those hearings.”

Kathryn said nothing.

“Russo’s dead, but Rich’s taped interviews with him are crucial to the senator and his committee. Do you have access to those tapes?”

“Of course not.”

“Rich has them?”

“Please, Mr. Greenleaf, I know nothing about tapes and hearings. You’re wasting your time talking to me.”

If he agreed-and probably did-he didn’t state it.

“Will you call me if you hear from Rich?”

“Let me have your number.”

She considered taking the phone off the hook, but was afraid she might miss a call from Rich. Later that afternoon, a call came in from Geoff Lowe’s girlfriend and colleague, Ellen Kelly. She hadn’t spoken with Ellen in a long time and was surprised to hear from her.

“How’s it going?” Ellen asked.

“Okay. You?”

“Busy. Swamped. Excited about Rich’s book coming out?”

“I-yes, very excited.”

“I imagine the author is on cloud nine.”

“He’s-he’s pleased. How’s Geoff?”

“The same as always. You know Geoff.”

Kathryn didn’t express that she did indeed know Geoff, and didn’t like what she knew. She said, “I was just about to run out, Ellen. What can I do for you?”

“I don’t suppose Richard is there.”

“No, he’s not.”

“I’m not being honest,” Ellen said. “I know he’s not there. Geoff has been frantic looking for him.”

“If you’re asking me where he is,” Kathryn said, “you’re wasting your time.”

“Kathryn, I’ll get to the point. Richard’s life is in danger.”

Kathryn felt her heart stop for a second. That his life might be in danger had been on her mind for days. But to hear someone say it, actually say it, was jolting.

“Did you hear me, Kathryn?” Ellen said. “His life is in danger.”

“Why?” was all Kathryn could summon.

“The book. The tapes. Especially the tapes. Don’t you see it? The tapes contain Louis Russo’s words, the same words he would have spoken had he lived and testified. It’s his voice. Whoever killed him wants Rich out of the way, too.”

Kathryn used a foot to pull an ottoman to where she stood and sat heavily on it. “Go on,” she said.

“Kathryn,” Ellen said in measured tones, like a teacher about to go through a particularly difficult lesson, “as long as Russo’s tapes are floating around, there are people who will kill to get their hands on them.”

“Who?” Kathryn, asked, feeling a touch of nausea.

“It doesn’t matter who. There’s only one way to protect Rich, Kathryn, and that’s for him to give up those tapes. Once they’re no longer with him, he’s in the clear.”

Kathryn’s initial paralysis lifted.

Ellen Kelly worked for Geoff Lowe and Senator Karl Widmer. They wanted the tapes for their hearings. That’s what was behind the call. Ellen and the others weren’t concerned about Rich’s safety. People were expendable. It was the tapes that mattered.

“You want the tapes for the hearings,” she said forcefully.

Ellen responded even more forcefully: “I want Rich to be safe! Geoff may want the tapes for the hearing, but I don’t give a damn about them. I’m getting ready to leave the staff, Kathryn. I’ve had it. Believe it or not, I’ve spent too long putting politics over people. I’m through.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Kathryn, can we get together for dinner? Lunch? A drink? I’m really concerned about Rich as long as he has those tapes.”

“I-I suppose so.”

“Now? I can come right over.”

“No. I have things to do. I’ll call you.”

“Kathryn, I don’t think you understand the gravity of this.”

“Oh, I do, I do, Ellen. I have another call coming in. Are you at your office?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call you there.”

She pushed Flash on the phone and heard Rich’s voice. “Hold on a second,” she told him, switching back to Ellen: “I have to take this, Ellen. I’ll call.”

She didn’t wait for Ellen to say anything, simply switched back to Rich on the other line.

After waking that afternoon, Marienthal had felt a need to get out of the apartment and to walk. Wearing sunglasses and a floppy tan rain hat, he quietly left the apartment-Jackson still slept-and got a half a block away before returning to grab the canvas bag containing his tapes and notes. The bag slung over his shoulder, he wandered the neighborhood until he found himself compelled to take a cab. When he climbed into the cab, he didn’t have a specific destination in mind, but the turbaned driver asked where he wished to go. “Union Station,” Marienthal replied, sounding as though someone else had said it.

The station was its usual busy hub of movement when he arrived. He paid the driver, walked through the main entrance on Massachusetts Avenue, paused and, like a tourist, looked up at the towering arched skylights over the Main Hall. His eyes went to the Augustus Saint-Gaudens stone sentinels looking down at the throngs of people moving through the vast hall. The shields covering the statue’s private parts had been added later to satisfy a call for modesty from some offended citizens.

He rode the escalator to the lower level, got cash from the Adams National Bank ATM machine, bought a newspaper, and took the only remaining seat in Johnny Rockets. He ordered coffee and a piece of lemon meringue pie. He looked around to see if anyone was showing interest in him. Satisfied no one was, he removed his sunglasses, and as he had never done before, read about himself in the paper. The article was illustrated with a picture of the cover of his book and a photo of Senator Karl Widmer. The statement previously released by Widmer’s staff indicated that the hearings into the role of the CIA in the assassination of the Chilean dictator Eliana would move forward, and that tape recordings of the assassin, Louis Russo, could provide evidence of the agency’s culpability in the murder. Adam Parmele’s involvement as head of the CIA wasn’t mentioned.

A leading Democrat on Widmer’s committee, a firm supporter of President Parmele, issued his own statement: “The hearings proposed by Senator Widmer represent nothing more than a blatant political witch hunt, based upon the questionable word of an aging, demented former Mafia killer, who for the past twelve years has been secluded under the witness protection program, and who now claims to have taken part in the assassination. His charges, contained in a recently published book, are ludicrous at best. Basing hearings on such absurd information makes a mockery of legitimate Senate hearings into important matters of state. I and my Democratic colleagues on the committee strenuously oppose this waste of taxpayer money in the interest of political gain.”

Marienthal’s name appeared near the end of the piece: “The book in which the charges are leveled, written by D.C. author Richard Marienthal, has just been published. Attempts to date to speak with Marienthal have been unsuccessful. According to his publisher, Hobbes House, the author’s whereabouts are unknown.”

Marienthal replaced his sunglasses and ate his pie, finished his coffee. He left the restaurant, a replica of a fifties diner, and returned to the street level. He took a circuitous route to the windows of the B. Dalton bookstore and viewed them from a distance. A pile of his books, with one perched on top to allow passersby to see the cover, occupied the window nearest the entrance. He overcame the temptation to enter the store and walked to Best Lockers, behind the Amtrak ticket counter and near Exclusive Shoe Shine. The lockers had been closed to the public after 9/11 as a security measure, but had been opened again. After taking a minute to make his decision, Marienthal located an empty locker and slid the canvas shoulder bag inside. He paused, removed the bag, and zipped it open. The tapes were bundled in plastic bags and secured with rubber bands, the notes filed in three-ring binders. He placed the bag’s contents in the locker, closed the door, and pocketed the key. The shoulder bag was like a pet rock or favorite wallet to Marienthal; no sense in leaving it behind.

Before departing the station, he went to a bank of public telephones next to Best Lockers and dialed his home phone.

“Hi,” he said. “How are you doing?”

“I am so happy to hear your voice,” she said. “I’m all right. You?”

“Okay.”

“The phone’s rung off the hook all day. I took a sick day. I shouldn’t have. Reporters. They’re so tenacious. Your father called.”

“I’m sure he did. Did Geoff call?”

“No, but Ellen did. How can I reach you?”

“You can’t. It’s better that way. I’d better go. I’ll get back to you.”

“So soon? I-”

“This’ll be over soon, Kathryn. Just think about that vacation we’ll be taking.”

“I will,” she said. “You take care.”

He hung up, left the station on to Massachusetts Avenue, and took a taxi back to Winard Jackson’s apartment. Had he stayed on the phone much longer or lingered by it, he would shortly have had the pleasure of meeting Timothy Stripling.

Stripling had spent most of the afternoon in the FBI’s central communications room at the Hoover Building, where a series of wiretaps had been initiated, under a special order from the attorney general of the United States. His authority to authorize such invasive measures had been widely expanded in the interest of homeland security, Tim knew, and indeed, no home seemed to be safe any longer.

The first tap had been placed on the phone registered to Richard Marienthal and had become operative at the tail end of Kathryn Jalick’s conversation with Ellen Kelly. Kathryn’s call from Marienthal had not only been recorded but was traced to a specific bank of public phones at Union Station. Stripling left the Hoover Building before the call was over, but no one resembling Marienthal was at the station. He drove the streets around the station but came up empty. Meanwhile, the agents back at the Hoover Building were placing additional taps on phones when Stripling left, and said they’d contact him twenty-four hours a day on the cell phone they’d provided if another lead developed. He’d now been given a number he could use to call directly into the com center, and used it first to report his failure to locate Marienthal.

He drove to Georgetown and had a sundae. Back in his car, he dialed a number on his cell phone.

“Jane? It’s Tim Stripling.”

“Hello, lover. Bad timing.”

“Got a client, huh? Any time later?”

“In an hour. Make it two.”

“Yeah, two. I prefer you fresh. And rested. See you then.”

With any luck, his cell wouldn’t ring at an inopportune time.