Murder in Georgetown

by Margaret Truman

  McCarty frowned. “Oh, the reporter.” He stood and shook Potamos’s hand, looked around the room, and laughed. “Find a place to sit if you can. Sorry it’s such a mess.”

  “Looks neat to me,” said Potamos. “Neatness was never my best subject when I was in school. Still isn’t.”

  McCarty removed a pile of soiled clothing from a chair, tossed it onto the bed, and pushed the chair toward Potamos. “Thanks,” Potamos said, perching on its edge. “Sorry to barge in. You studying?”

  “Yes. I have a final this afternoon.”

  “Finals. I don’t miss that.”

  “I don’t either. I went through it all once, even law school.”

  “Law? I thought you were a journalism student.”

  “I am. The minute they handed me my diploma, I didn’t want to be a lawyer. I decided on journalism. They took me into the master’s program. I was lucky.”

  “Makes sense. Law training teaches you to ask questions and not believe most of the answers.”

  McCarty laughed.

  They looked at each other in silence.

  “The reason I’m here, Steve, is Valerie Frolich’s murder.”

  “I figured that out already. I read the piece you did on the funeral. I was there.”

  “I saw you, with George Bowen.”

  “My seminar professor. You know him, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “We still can’t believe it. Incredible.”

  “You knew her pretty good?”

  “Well, I guess so. We were in the seminar together. Sure, we knew each other.”

  “What’d you think of her?”

  “Of Valerie?” A shrug. “I liked her. She was fun.”

  “Fun? How?”

  Another shrug. “Nice to be with. A nice gal. She was a good student, too. Straight A’s, I think.”

  “Yeah, evidently. Who else is in the seminar?”

  “There were five of us, counting Valerie. Now… there’s four.”

  “Cream of the crop.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, although it was tough to get in. Bowen sets pretty high standards.”

  “Does he? Is he a good teacher?”

  McCarty looked at him quizzically. “He’s… well, you know what a name he is in the business.”

  Potamos smiled. “Sure, but sometimes those people don’t make good teachers. What do they call it, the Peter Principle? Being promoted to your level of incompetence.”

  “Not the case with Mr. Bowen, Mr. Potamos. He’s a great teacher.”

  “That’s good to hear. What about the other students? They feel the same way?”

  “I guess so. I mean, we all complain now and then, but I think he’s pretty well liked by everyone.”

  “Valerie like him?”

  “Sure. They had a…”

  “Had a what?”

  “A special relationship. Her father and he are close friends. I guess there was a lot of socializing.”

  “Between Bowen and Valerie?”

  “No, between families. Why did you ask that?”

  Potamos gave him his best noncommittal look. “Nothing intended, just a question. Let’s get back to you. Ever date Valerie?”

  The shift in McCarty’s attitude was visible. He leaned back and away from Potamos and for the first time gave the appearance of having something else to do.

  “Hey, I’m just trying to get a handle on Valerie as a person. I’m supposed to generate a story a day on the case and figured I might as well start talking to the people who knew her best, her friends, especially students. You were first on the list.”

  “No need to explain, Mr. Potamos.”

  “I know that—and call me Joe. Ever date her?”

  McCarty shook his head.

  “Okay.” Potamos stood and they shook hands. “Just one other thing, Steve, I have a list of the other students in the seminar. Can you tell me how to get ahold of them? It’d save me time.” He handed McCarty a slip of paper. The young man scribbled a note next to each name and handed the paper back to Potamos.

  “This is great. Thanks. Maybe we’ll catch up again.”

  “Are you going to quote me?”

  “No. This is just background. Take it easy, and good luck on your final.”

  Potamos called Roseann Blackburn from the dorm’s lobby. She sounded sleepy. “I wake you?” he asked.

  “No. I was half-awake.”

  “Late gig?”

  “I went out after.”

  He resisted asking her whom she was with. “You busy tonight?”

  “A job, but early. I’m doing a preheat at a catering house in Rockville.”

  “Preheat?”

  “I warm them up before the band starts. Just two hours solo. I’ll be done by seven, back by eight.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Sure.”

  ***

  His next stop was a run-down rooming house on a small street off New Jersey Avenue, near the Capitol. He asked the landlady if Tony Fiamma, another seminar student, was home.

  “He never is, especially on rent day,” she said through a tiny, wrinkled mouth.

  “Can I leave this for him?” He handed her his card.

  She looked at it, then at him, and said, “If I see him.”

  “Can’t ask for more than that,” said Potamos. “Maybe I’ll leave one on his door, too. Okay?”

  “Number three, top of the stairs.”

  Potamos knocked on the door. No answer. He tried it; it opened. The room was small and sparsely furnished. The closet was a battered gray metal cabinet. Clothing hung from a row of hooks on one wall. What little Fiamma possessed was tossed everywhere. The only oasis of order was a desk in front of a window caked with dirt. The desk was made from a hollow door supported by two file cabinets. Everything on it was neat: paper stacked carefully, pens and pencils in coffee cups, a dictionary and thesaurus lined up beneath the window. The chair was of the old white kitchen variety. Next to it, on a gray metal typing table, was a new IBM Selectric typewriter, obviously a prized possession.

  Potamos left his card on the desk and added a note: “Would like to talk to you as soon as possible.”

  Anne Lewis, the third seminar student on Potamos’s list, lived at home. Potamos knew her father, Paul Lewis, one of Washington’s most influential lobbyists. He called the house and was told by a woman he pegged as the housekeeper that Miss Lewis wasn’t there. “When do you expect her?” Potamos asked.

  “I do not know,” the woman said, the Caribbean in her voice.

  Number four on the list was Bob Fitzgerald. He lived off campus. His roommate answered, told Potamos that Bob would be back at five. “Tell him I’ll be there then,” Potamos said.

  He spent the afternoon in his office writing that day’s piece on the Frolich murder, at least what he could conjure up from the limited material on hand. Gil Gardello came into his office at four and handed him notes from the press conference that had been held on the autopsy. It had been covered by a young reporter whose story hadn’t pleased Gardello. “Rewrite this thing, Joe.”

  Potamos would have balked—he’d gotten beyond the rewrite stage of his career a long time ago—but not having much of a story of his own tempered his response. “Yeah, okay.”

  He turned in the rewrite at 4:30 and left for Bob Fitzgerald’s apartment, which was above a bar at the western end of M Street. Heavy rock music from the bar—and from the apartment’s open window—competed for attention. Potamos opened the street door and looked up a long, narrow flight of stairs. He realized as he started up that the music from the apartment wasn’t a recording. Someone was playing an electric guitar.

  He reached the landing, saw that there were two doors, and knocked on the one containing the guitar. It took a succession of louder knocks before the whining glissandi ceased and the door opened.

  “Bob Fitzgerald?”

  “Yeah. You’re Joe Potamos.”

  “Right. Mind if I come in?”

 
“No, come on. I was just jamming.”

  Potamos stepped inside. “You’re a musician?” It wasn’t exactly the word he wanted to apply to what he’d heard, but he couldn’t come up with anything better.

  “Yeah, I have a band.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Yeah, we’ve been rehearsing a month now. Just replaced the bass player with a dynamite new guy. I do all the writing.”

  Potamos nodded in appreciation.

  “This is really something, having somebody from the Post here. I read you all the time.”

  “Good. You must know why I’m here. I wanted to talk about Valerie Frolich.”

  “Sure. Sit down.”

  Potamos sat in a yellow director’s chair; Fitzgerald positioned a barstool with torn brown vinyl a few feet away. “You want to ask questions?”

  “A couple. I’m just looking for some understanding of her, that’s all. No story or anything, at least not now. I just want to learn more about Valerie from you and other students she knew.”

  Potamos watched Fitzgerald go into silent thought. He was a nice-looking young man, six feet tall, fine features capped by a mass of blow-dried black hair. What Potamos couldn’t square was his dress—cutting-edge punk, faded blue T-shirt with the name of a band on it, black leather jacket covered with metal studs, a belt of machine-gun shell casings, black leather boots, and an earring (left ear, noted Potamos; presumably heterosexual). Somehow, he didn’t fit the image of one of the university’s top journalism students.

  “Okay,” Fitzgerald said, coming out of his trance, “Valerie Frolich was… she was one of the greatest girls I’ve ever known. She could write rings around everybody in her classes, and she had the best journalistic sense of anyone I’ve ever met. Besides, she was beautiful and good and kind.”

  Potamos cocked his head as though waiting for the next accolade.

  “That’s it, I guess,” said Fitzgerald. His eyes had misted over and Potamos wondered if he might cry.

  “You were close.”

  “Yeah, we were. Nothing romantic. We were good buddies, you could say.”

  “That’s nice. Did you talk to her the day she was murdered?”

  “That night you mean? Yeah, I did. I bumped into her after that party on the barge.”

  “After the party?”

  “Yes. I was in a bar and she came in. We had some good laughs. She described the party to me. She hated—ah, I shouldn’t say that. I don’t think Valerie hated anybody. She thought all those people at the party—the society crowd, her father’s friends—were silly, if you know what I mean. Lots of money but short on brains.”

  Potamos laughed. “Her father, too?”

  “No, but… to be honest, she didn’t get along so well with him.”

  “So I’ve heard. Any specific reasons?”

  Fitzgerald shrugged. “A generation thing, I suppose.”

  “The night of her death, at the bar you mentioned, did she come in with anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Who were you with?”

  “A couple of musicians I know. Just hanging out, drinking beer and talking music.”

  “Bob, have you told this to anyone else?”

  “Told what, about seeing her at the bar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure. I told the police and—”

  “Sergeant Languth?”

  “Yeah, that’s his name. Big heavy guy. Tough.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Friends. That’s all anybody’s talking about on campus and in town, Valerie being murdered. I think I was probably one of the last people she saw while she was alive and…” His eyes wetter this time, then a few controlled sobs.

  “I’m sorry,” Potamos said.

  “She was such a good friend. Who the hell could do something like that to her?”

  “I don’t know. You have any ideas?”

  He shook his head and reached for a Kleenex.

  Potamos stood and went to a large, freestanding bookcase filled with record albums and cassette tapes. “You have a lot of records,” he said. “Any Frank Sinatra?”

  “Sinatra? No, I’m not into mood music.”

  Potamos said, “Thanks for your time, Bob. If you come up with anything else, I’d appreciate hearing from you.”

  “Sure. I’ve been thinking of doing my own investigation.”

  “For a story? Good idea.”

  “Everybody is—Steve, Anne Lewis, Tony. Well, maybe not Tony.”

  “The others from the seminar.”

  “Yeah. I think Steve and Anne are working on it together.”

  “Does Bowen know about it?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. I didn’t mention it to him. Steve and Annie have an edge. He dated Valerie and—”

  “Steve McCarty?”

  “Uh-huh. He was pretty ticked off when she dumped him. I shouldn’t say that. Valerie never dumped any guy, just… sort of said goodbye. Annie’s father is a good friend of Senator Frolich’s. I guess they figured they could combine the personal side from Steve’s relationship with her, and Annie’s inside info from her father.”

  Potamos puffed his cheeks and went to the door.

  “I’ll call you if I think of something,” Fitzgerald said.

  Back home, Potamos showered with hot water for a change, then made himself a drink and settled into a favorite recliner after turning on the local news. The Valerie Frolich story was the lead item, with various correspondents reporting on different aspects of the case. The final segment was a brief statement by an MPD spokeswoman: “We have no leads to date. The investigation is proceeding with every available resource committed to it. A special task force has been established, and any persons with information to offer should call this special number.” She read a phone number as it appeared simultaneously at the bottom of the screen. The local anchor repeated the number, then led into a story about a congressional deadlock over a military-spending bill.

  Potamos sipped his drink and thought of Bob Fitzgerald’s comments about Steve McCarty having dated, and been jilted by, Valerie Frolich, and about having seen Valerie at the bar after the barge party. The name of the young man with her on the barge was David Field. He’d been questioned extensively by the police, and a Post staffer had interviewed him. Potamos had read the staffer’s notes. According to Field, he and Valerie had left the barge and gone to a party at a friend’s apartment, then split up. When asked why he hadn’t stayed with his date for the evening, he’d replied, “We had different places to go, that’s all.” Field had dropped out of school and was, he said, looking for work as an actor. His means of support: “Daddy.”

  After showering and dressing, Potamos called Gil Gardello at the paper.

  “Nice rewrite,” Gardello said. “We’ll go with it on page one.”

  “My big break. Any calls?”

  “A couple.” He reeled off some names and numbers, including Tony Fiamma. “Who’s he?”

  “One of the kids in Bowen’s seminar. I left my card.”

  “Elegant.”

  “I’m a class act, Gil.”

  “Hey, Joe, I almost forgot. Bowen’s doing a column for tomorrow on the Frolich kid. It’s good, a real heart tugger.”

  “Why tell me?”

  “I was sure you’d want to read it, being such a fan and all.”

  “The words are on the tip of the tongue, Gil, every one of them consisting of four letters.”

  “What’re you giving us tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve talked to two out of the four kids who were in the seminar with her. Maybe I’ll do a human-interest thing.”

  “Maybe. Call me before you do. I might want you to do an in-depth on her.”

  “You already did her background.”

  “We need more. Call me.”

  “You want me to call you.” He laughed. Gardello hung up after some four-letter words of his own.

  Tony Fiamma answered on the first ring.

  “I’
ve been talking to other students in the seminar,” Potamos said, “and I’d like to spend some time with you. I appreciate your calling back. Hope you don’t mind my going into your room and leaving my card, but—”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I was at your rooming house today. I talked to your landlady and went to your room.”

  “I haven’t been home.”

  “Oh, I… you’re not returning my call?”

  “No, I called you.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  Potamos smiled. Fiamma was tough-talking, his voice raspy, like an impressionist doing a mob godfather. Potamos said, “Shoot. What do you want to talk to me about?”

  “Valerie Frolich’s murder.”

  “Funny, but that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “We probably have different reasons.”

  “Probably. What’s yours?”

  “I want to work on the story with you.”

  When Potamos didn’t reply, Fiamma said, “I can crack the whole case. I know a lot.”

  “Do you? Like what?”

  “Meet me and we’ll talk.”

  “Depends.”

  “You said you wanted to talk to me anyway. Maybe I can make your day.”

  “I doubt that, Mr. Fiamma, but sure, let’s talk. Name it.”

  “Tonight, about eight?”

  “Can’t. I’m tied up.”

  “That’s your problem.”

  Potamos laughed, said, “Not if you knew who’s tying me up. Look, Fiamma, let’s knock off the tough-guy crap. I’ll meet you tomorrow, your time, your place.”

  There was silence.

  “Thanks for calling,” Potamos said with finality in his voice.

  “You tied up all night?”

  “I hope so.”

  “I’ll be at this number you called. If you get free, give me a call. I’ll be here. If it’s tomorrow, try me at my room about noon.”

  “What’s your number there?”

  “I don’t have a phone, but I’ll stay around.” He hung up.

  Potamos thought about the conversation all the way to Roseann’s apartment. Fiamma didn’t sound like any college student he’d ever known. The kid had rankled him, yet Potamos was intrigued with him, almost liked him, in a strange way. He heard a little of himself in the way Fiamma talked, and he realized he was looking forward to meeting him.