“It’s worth a lot more than that, man.”
Fifteen minutes later Potamos decided that on the open market what Fiamma had gathered about Valerie Frolich’s murder was indeed worth at least fifty dollars.
“Well?” Fiamma said.
“Yeah, it’s interesting,” Potamos said, “but I just realized something. Everything you’ve said has to be screened through your dislike of her. Maybe hatred’s more like it.”
Fiamma shrugged. “What was to like? She was a spoiled brat. They all are in the seminar, precious little sons and daughters of rich people playing student, driving around in fancy cars daddy paid for, going to class every morning like it was a goddamn fashion show and… what really counts, Mr. Potamos, is that none of them can write their way out of a paper bag.”
“That’s a cliché,” Potamos said.
“You know what I mean. Bowen says sometimes a cliché is okay, makes a point faster than coming up with a lot of big words. The point is, I’m a writer, a real writer, not like them. Valerie Frolich.” The name came off his lips dripping with venom. “She played up to Bowen all the time and he fell for it, favored the hell out of her.”
“They sleep together?”
“Yeah.”
“Prove it?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“That’s later.”
“After what, more money?”
“Yeah, and a job at the Post.”
“Forget it. I’m just a working reporter, cop stuff, no clout at all. No sense promising something I can’t deliver.”
“You could let me work with you, share the by-line, make a name for myself. You have expenses, right? You could pay me for information. You do it all the time.”
“Bowen teach you that brand of journalism?”
“Bowen’s a pompous ass.”
For the first time, Potamos liked Fiamma.
“Well?”
“You mentioned this student, the one you say dated Valerie and had a falling out with her in a bar after the barge party. What’s his name?”
Fiamma grinned. “I’m not that dumb.”
“Neither am I,” said Potamos, standing and stretching. “You said this student had a fight with her, then arranged with a buddy to provide an alibi that they’d been studying together all night.”
“Yup.”
“The police know?”
“I don’t know. Probably not.”
“How do you know?”
“I get around. I listen. I’m a good reporter.”
“Maybe. Sorry, Tony, but without substantiation your merchandise doesn’t have much value. Fifty bucks’ worth of speculation. Keep it, my contribution to higher education. Nice meeting you.”
Potamos opened the door to see the landlady lingering in the hall. “You want something?” Potamos asked.
“The rent. He’s—”
Potamos closed the door and faced Fiamma. “Give me something more, Tony, and maybe we can make a deal.”
“Like what?”
“Names of the two students.”
“No… I—” His tone softened, and there was a hint of a plea in his voice. “Look, I’ve got to make it. I’ve worked my tail off and… Come on, give me a break, huh?”
Potamos fended off his temptation to soften, too. He said, “Give me the names and I’ll do what I can. I’ll pay Scrooge out there another hundred. That leaves you thirty bucks short on the rent. Do a shift at Burger King and you can come up with it. I’ll also see what I can do about ringing you in on some stories, get you some credit, but I can’t promise that.”
“Okay.” There was no hesitation. “She dated a clown named Walter Nebel, political-science type. His buddy is Sam Maruca, another political-science student.”
“And you’re sure what you said happened did happen, that Maruca provided an alibi for Nebel after he’d fought with Valerie?”
“It’s what I hear.”
“Cafeteria scuttlebutt?”
Fiamma laughed. “A little better than that.”
“Okay, I’ll go with it, look up Nebel and Maruca. I’ll be in touch.” He handed Fiamma another hundred.
“I appreciate it,” Fiamma said, which surprised Potamos. Then, as Potamos was about to open the door again, Fiamma said, “I have her diary, too.”
If it was intended to shock Potamos, it succeeded. He turned slowly and frowned at Fiamma. “Valerie Frolich’s diary?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d you get it?”
“Doesn’t matter, but I have it.”
“Maybe having it doesn’t matter either. Anything in it that bears on her murder?”
“Plenty. We can talk about that next time. Thanks for the hundred.”
“A hundred and fifty.”
“Yeah, whatever. I’ll call you.”
“I hope so.”
| Chapter Nine |
Marshall Jenkins spent early Saturday morning trout fishing in a private four-mile stream on his Leesburg retreat. He landed three trout, returned two to the water, and gave the third—a four-pounder—to the chef to prepare for lunch.
He was joined at lunch by one of his attorneys and a financial adviser, both of whom had been summoned by a midnight phone call to discuss the deterioration of South African gold stocks, which represented a sizable portion of Jenkins’s portfolio.
After lunch—and after the others had been dismissed—Jenkins went to his skeet-shooting range, where he practiced until George Alfred Bowen arrived at three. Bowen watched patiently as Jenkins completed his final round of blasting a succession of silt-and-pitch targets around the semicircular range. When the last target had been destroyed, Bowen applauded politely and said, “Impressive.”
“There are days,” Jenkins said. “Come, John will be here at four. He couldn’t get away last night.”
Bowen waited in the study while Jenkins showered and changed into country-casual clothing. Bowen wore a pinched-waist charcoal-gray three-button suit, pale blue shirt with white collar, and gray tie that was almost black. When Jenkins returned, he said to Bowen, “You never do dress for the country, do you, George?”
“The ‘country’ is a state of mind, Marshall. I prefer consistency.”
“One of these days I’ll see you in a pair of waders in the trout stream.”
“Not in this life. A drink? I’m thirsty.”
“Help yourself. I ordered more Blanton’s in your honor.”
Bowen poured with precision from a bottle of Blanton’s bourbon into a large snifter, then filled another glass with ice and seltzer. “Can I get you something?” he asked Jenkins.
“They’ll bring me tea. You should try it instead of whiskey, George. It doesn’t destroy the brain cells.”
Bowen laughed and tasted his drink. “Some of us have excessive brain cells, Marshall. I can afford to lose a few.” He waited for a retort, smiled when it wasn’t forthcoming, and settled back into a blue leather club chair, legs carefully crossed, a glance down to ensure that his tie was straight.
Jenkins was busy arranging fishing flies in a series of divided cases. He focused intently on the project until Bowen asked, “How’s Elsa?”
Jenkins looked up and narrowed his eyes. “Very well, George.”
The intensity of the look wasn’t lost on Bowen. He sipped from the snifter and added, “She looked well the other night at the party.”
Jenkins looked up again. “Elsa always looks well, George. She’s in New York. We’re going to Rome next week.”
“Lovely.”
“It should be pleasant. Have you talked to John about Valerie’s unfortunate death?” He asked the question but seemed more interested in the flies.
“Of course. You?”
“Yes. He’s handling it quite well.”
“I’d agree. Henrietta’s another matter, but then again, mothers generally take these things harder.”
Jenkins look this time was more pointed. “How would you know?”
“
Years of observation.” Bowen knew Jenkins was thinking of the death of his own daughter but refused to soften for Bowen’s benefit.
A member of the house staff brought Jenkins tea and biscuits. He put away the boxes of flies and went through the ritual of arranging the tray on his desk.
“I was surprised John agreed to come here this weekend,” said Bowen.
“Why?”
A casual shrug. “Other things on his mind.”
“He’s practical. You don’t become a U.S. senator by being otherwise, or president of the United States.”
Bowen smiled and went to the bar for a refill, saying over his shoulder, “It’s safe to assume that you have something important on your mind. I mean, after all, Marshall, I don’t fish or hunt or shoot at little clay birds in the air, and John has a duty to comfort Henrietta in her moment of travail, as well as attending to affairs of state.” He turned, freshened glass in his hand, leaned against the bar and asked, “Why are we here, Marshall?”
“The condo,” Jenkins answered, not removing his eyes from the task of smearing raspberry jam on a biscuit.
“Ah, the condo.” Bowen returned to his chair and resumed his previous pose. “More trouble?”
“The usual community groups clamoring for attention, the Russians delivering their daily protests, do-gooders deciding to march against it instead of against the last cause they marched against. We need editorial support.”
Bowen said nothing, just looked down into the shimmering amber liquid in his snifter and reveled in Jenkins’s asking for help that only he could deliver.
“They ought to be lined up and shot,” Jenkins said, smacking his lips.
“The Russians?”
“All of them—the do-gooders, the activists, the misguided. Remarkable, George, how helpless people are.” Bowen glanced up and cocked a salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “They’re all pathetic, helpless sheep,” Jenkins went on. “They don’t understand that their very survival depends upon what people like me do for their benefit. It’s very sad, and a burden.”
“Responsibility. Never easy, like a string we can see only the middle of. The ends are always out of sight.”
“Exactly. As I said, we need more editorial support. The timing is crucial.”
“I’m not sure I can do more. After all, there’s—”
“I don’t like that phrase, ‘after all.’ We do what we must.”
Bowen sighed. He wasn’t in the mood for a lecture on responsibility; he’d had enough of them from Jenkins in the past. He’d write another column supporting the construction of Jenkins’s condominium on the upper reaches of Wisconsin Avenue, directly across from the newly constructed Russian Embassy. There was no trouble justifying it. It was a hot topic. The Georgetown Historical Preservation Society had been issuing statements about it ever since ground was broken, and splintered citizen groups had staged protest marches whenever the weather was fair enough to not cause them undue discomfort.
Jenkins had built numerous buildings in Georgetown and the Washington, D.C., area, but none had triggered such anger. The problem was that his plans called for a structure considerably taller than was allowed by existing zoning laws, a towering building that would dominate the skyline.
The Russian protest was expected. They’d built their new embassy on twelve and a half acres in the Mt. Alto area, in accordance with a deal struck in 1969 between the Soviet Union and the United States. Under its terms, each country was given a little over twelve acres on which to construct a new embassy. The Russians ended up with prime hilltop land in Georgetown that provided sweeping views of all Washington, while the Americans accepted a twelve-acre tract a block from the Moscow River, in a swamp, even lower than their existing Moscow Embassy.
Aesthetics aside, the major objections by critics centered on the strategic value of the Mt. Alto land. Because of its altitude, the Russians had been handed a prime location for electronic surveillance of radio transmissions from the White House, State Department, and virtually every other branch of government. New York’s Senator Moynihan had said, “We just got snookered; it’s inexplicable.” Another critic, James E. Nolan, a former head of counterintelligence for the FBI and currently director of the State Department’s Office of Foreign Missions, put it another way: “I’m sure if we knew everything then that we do now, we wouldn’t have made the same selection. We wouldn’t have picked nearly the highest site in the city.”
In response to the growing criticism, a Soviet Embassy spokesman simply said, “We did not capture the site. We were given it.” Which was true.
But then the Russians launched their own protest against the construction of Jenkins’s high-rise condo across the street, claiming that it “violated the privacy and integrity of every Soviet Embassy employee and their families.” Translated: “You’ll be in a position to intercept our interception of your transmissions.”
And so the fight continued, from the laying of the first Soviet Embassy brick to the first shovelful of earth removed for the condo. Another Washington flap. International. Them versus us. Everyone loved it, especially the press.
***
A long black limousine delivered Senator John Frolich to the retreat at four. After being greeted by Jenkins and Bowen, he was shown to his room, where he changed into more-casual attire—a tweed jacket with brown elbow patches, tan twill slacks, a champagne turtleneck, and loafers. He joined them in the study. “Scotch,” he told Jenkins, who poured him a hefty glass of it. A housekeeper had placed a large tray of shrimp, caviar, smoked salmon, and toast on a table, and the three men tasted of it.
“I was talking to Marshall about the condo,” Bowen said after they’d settled into leather chairs in a tight circle in front of a fireplace.
Frolich looked at Jenkins, who smiled, reached over, and patted the senator’s arm. “I told George that we needed additional editorial support. Would you agree?”
“I suppose so, as long as it isn’t blatant,” Frolich replied, trying to keep a caper from rolling off his salmon-on-toast.
“I can do it,” said Bowen. “I’d prefer having more breathing room since the last piece I did, but I’ll do it. Any ideas on a slant?”
Frolich realized Bowen was asking it of him. He shook his head. “It’s not my department.”
“Of course,” Bowen said, getting up and walking toward the bar. “Can I freshen anyone’s drink?”
The others declined.
“I think we ought to pull back, Marshall, relax the pressure,” Frolich said to Jenkins.
“I disagree,” Jenkins said. “We’ve done too much of that already. I’m under pressure from my partners. Every day it sits there it costs money, my money—your money, John.”
“I’d rather lose some now and be assured of future success. Doesn’t that make sense?”
“You and your colleagues can afford to take that position, John. I can’t. I want progress on it, and I want it now. Besides, it’s no longer only money involved. There’s the matter of—”
“We’re all aware of that, Marshall,” Bowen said in a voice that reflected his annoyance with the conversation, and also reflected the effects of the bourbon on his tongue.
“I’m pleased to hear that,” Jenkins said. “I have a limited tolerance for losing sight of priorities.”
“I never noticed,” Bowen said, laughing to stress that he was joking.
Jenkins let the laughter fade away before asking Frolich, “How is Henrietta?”
“All right, thank you.”
“Anything new on the… on Valerie’s case?”
“No.”
A heavy silence filled the room, which had sunk into darkness as night closed in.
It was Bowen who broke it. “Is there anything I can do, John?” he asked.
“No, nothing, thank you. Henrietta and I have finally come to grips with it. It was obviously the result of the people Valerie chose to associate with, the drug addicts and the freaks.” He leaned back and spoke reflectively. “Sh
e had that need to associate with the down-and-out, the unsavory elements. You do that and you place yourself in their sickness, in their squalor. It’s no comfort to realize that, but it does provide a certain… well, a certain understanding that’s necessary if a parent is to survive it.” He sat up straight and said in a louder, more convincing voice, “Enough of that. Let’s get back to business.”
“Let’s not,” Jenkins said, standing and coming around behind Frolich, his hands on Frolich’s shoulders, fingers kneading the flesh. “Dinner is in order. We can talk later, over good brandy and fresh coffee. Come on, I’ve ordered something special for us.”
| Chapter Ten |
Potamos’s first reaction to the ringing phone was to wonder where he was. It wasn’t his bed. He kicked against the covers and got a growl from Jumper in return.
He sat up against Roseann Blackburn’s headboard. “Oh, yeah,” he said as he fumbled in the darkened bedroom for the phone. His hand found it but didn’t lift the receiver. Maybe he shouldn’t answer her phone. Might be a boyfriend. Her mother. But he had to answer because he’d left the number with the paper. “Hello,” he said, and was relieved to hear Yvonne Master’s voice. “Joe?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“What number is this?”
“What… what do you care?”
“It’s not your number.”
“That’s right. It’s the White House. I got a little drunk and the First Lady suggested I stay over.”
“Joe.”
“What the hell do you want at this hour? What time is it? Huh? Two?” He thought of Blackburn, who was out on a playing job. She’d said she’d be back by one. He hoped she was all right. He hoped she wasn’t out with another guy.
“Joe, you had some phone calls tonight.”
“They couldn’t wait until morning?”
“One sounded urgent. The name is Fiamma, Anthony Fiamma.”
“Anthony? What else?”
“An Anne Lewis called. She said you’d tried to reach her and she was returning your call. She said she’ll be at home all day Sunday.”
“Great. Anything else?”
“Gil left a note wanting to know what you planned to file tomorrow.”
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