“Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
She ignored him. “He said he needs a feature on Valerie Frolich’s friends, especially the students she was friendly with at school.”
“Tell Gil I’ll do everything I can. Tell Gil I’ll write a Pulitzer piece after nine hours sleep. Tell Gil I’ll call him.”
“Okay. One other thing, Joe. George Bowen wants to talk to you.”
“Now?”
“Monday, at ten, in his office.”
“Why?”
“How would I know that?”
“That’s right, Yvonne, how would you know that? Are we through?”
“Yes…. Joe?”
“What?”
“Is this a… a lover’s apartment?”
“If it is, it’s a cruel joke. Just me and the dog here.”
“Oh. Well, goodnight.”
“You, too, Yvonne.”
“I’m working.”
He hung up.
Blackburn arrived fifteen minutes later. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, disrobing in seconds and tossing clothing in every direction. “Sorry I woke you,” she said on her way to the bathroom.
“You didn’t,” he called after her. The cat jumped up on the bed, causing Jumper to snarl. “Hey, shut up,” Potamos said, kicking the cat to the floor. “It’s her house.”
Blackburn came from the bathroom, its light silhouetting her slender nakedness. “Want something?”
“Like what?” He exaggerated the leer in his voice.
“A drink? Cognac? Warm milk?”
“Cognac.”
They sat together in bed, brandy snifters in their hands, a bedside lamp casting a warm yellow glow over their upper bodies.
“How come you were late?” he asked.
“Overtime. I really didn’t want it, but…”
“What’s the matter?”
“I feel like I’m being interrogated.”
“Ah, come on, I just wondered.”
She turned to face him. “No, Joe, I mean it. I had funny feelings about having you go to sleep here while I was out working, but… well, it was appealing having you here when I got back. But I’m not used to accounting to anyone. I work nights. I’m a musician. Some nights I can’t wait to get home and to bed. Other nights… well, other nights I feel like finding a place to jam until dawn, or feel like hanging out in a diner with other musicians, or… understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Tonight it was overtime. Rich crowd tossing hundred-dollar bills at the band to stay around.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why should you be? I just wanted to clear it up.”
“You did.”
“Good.”
“Where’d you work?”
She snapped her fingers and faced him again. “I almost forgot. I worked a house party for Julia Amster.”
Potamos turned to face her. “Bowen’s girlfriend. Was he there?”
“No, but there was a lot of talk about him. Somebody said he was away fishing.”
Potamos laughed. “His idea of fishing would be to have two kids hold rods and hand him fish when they reeled them in. Julia Amster. Funny, but she’s the only woman I know of who’s had a continuing relationship with Bowen. The others come and go, but she’s a steady, always seems to be around when he needs a class broad on his arm. All the young ones are probably good in bed, but when it comes to social graces and dinner-table conversation, they don’t make it.”
Her silence was pointed.
“I say something?”
“Am I a young broad?”
“Younger than me. Younger than my two ex-wives.”
“That’s not what I mean. I mean…”
“I love the way you talk. I love the way you play the piano. You’re smarter than I am. How’s that?”
“I’ll think about it.” There was mirth in her voice.
“Tell me more about the party, about Julia Amster.”
“Dull. Lots of talk about pre-Columbian art. Very precious crowd. I did learn that she’s been getting obscene phone calls.”
“Amster? Maybe Bowen’s getting kinky.”
“Maybe not obscene—annoying is more like it.”
“Any idea who?”
“Not that I could hear.” She placed her snifter on the night table and cuddled against him. “I never get obscene phone calls,” she said.
“Want me to make a few?”
“Yeah.”
“You got it. When should I start.”
“Right now, and don’t dial the wrong number.”
He kicked Jumper from the bed and gently, surely, began placing his call.
| Chapter Eleven |
Potamos and Blackburn slept late Sunday morning, then took a leisurely walk, stopping for the newspaper and a breakfast of Danish and coffee. They passed the new Russian Embassy and stood across the street from it. He pointed to an eight-story white marble building and said, “That’s the Chancellery. That building over there is the consulate, I think. There’s a theater inside that seats four hundred people.”
“I wish it weren’t here in Georgetown,” Blackburn said.
“You and a lot of people.” He started to tell her of the strategic advantage the Soviets had achieved because of the site’s elevation when she stopped him, grabbed his arm, and said, “I don’t care about politics, Joe. I just don’t like having an armed camp like this where I live—those walls and that black iron fence. I see some of the people from inside there in town, at parties I play, and they’re so cold and unhappy-looking.”
Potamos shrugged and kissed her lightly on the lips. “They’re just people, that’s all. The whole embassy game is like that. How do you think our people live in Moscow?”
“They have to because they’re not allowed freedom. The Russians prefer it this way.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
They turned their attention to the condo going up on the other side of Wisconsin Avenue. Construction had stopped fifteen floors up. A massive crane on the roof stood silent against a blue sky dotted with fast-moving white puffs of cloud. A large piece of canvas flapped in the wind from the flat, open roof. The structure was surrounded by mounds of brown earth created by earthmovers. A white trailer stood in the middle of the mounds. A red sign painted on it said: Jenkins Development.
“And that,” Blackburn said as they continued their walk. “Why don’t they just pour concrete over all of us?”
Potamos laughed. “I think Jenkins intends to.”
“Do you think he’ll get the permit to keep going up with it?”
“Probably. His kind of money talks big, even when historical preservation societies are involved. He’s stopped for now, but who knows what goes on behind the closed doors and under the tables?” Potamos shook his head. “Mr. Integrity, George Alfred Bowen, listens to the sound of Jenkins’s dollar bills. He’s been doing columns supporting the condo ever since the first permit was applied for. He and Jenkins are tight.”
“Disgusting.”
“Reality, that’s all. Hey, you know, all the crap aside, Jenkins isn’t all bad. He’s put up a lot of good buildings in D.C. And that project of his to buy up houses in Georgetown and rent them out to deserving college students at low rates gives him some redeeming qualities.”
After they’d returned to her apartment and read the paper, Blackburn asked what he planned to do for the rest of the day.
“I have to make a couple of calls. In fact, let me make ‘em now.” He called the only number he had for Tony Fiamma but received no answer. He tried the other seminar student, Anne Lewis, and reached her at home. “I’d like to talk to you about Valerie Frolich,” he said. She seemed anxious to comply and they arranged to meet at seven at Martin’s Tavern.
His next call was to a number he’d found for Walter Nebel, the political-science student who Fiamma claimed had fought with Valerie the night of her murder, and who’d arranged an alibi with Sam Maruca. A young woman answered and when Potamos asked for Ne
bel, her voice reflected anguish. “He left,” she said.
“For where?”
“I don’t know. He said he was dropping out of school and going to Europe with friends.”
“Why would he do that now? The semester’s almost over.”
She cried, composed herself, and said, “I don’t know any more than I just told you, Mr. Potamos. Maybe you can call his family. They live in Pennsylvania, outside of Pittsburgh.” She gave him a phone number.
“Have you talked to them?”
“No, I… they don’t know me.”
She obviously was romantically involved with Nebel. Potamos said, “Do you figure Walter’s already left for Europe?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Did he talk to his parents about it, about the decision?”
“I don’t know that either. Please, I just don’t understand any of it and…”—her voice picked up strength and anger—“and, don’t want to. Goodbye.” The phone was returned to its cradle with considerable force.
“Mind if I make a long-distance call?” Potamos asked Blackburn, who was curled up on the couch reading the comics. “I’ll charge it to my phone.”
“Whatever.”
He called the number in Pennsylvania. It rang eight times before a male voice answered gruffly, “Hello.”
“Is this Walter Nebel’s home?” Potamos asked.
There was a pause. “He’s not here.”
“My name is Joe Potamos. I’m with the Washington Post… and I teach journalism at Georgetown University.” Blackburn glanced up, smiled, and returned to the funnies. “I just heard about Walter dropping out of school and thought he might have gone home.”
“Home? This is where he grew up, but it ain’t his home, not anymore.”
“Yes, I can understand how you must feel. Any idea where he might be?”
“No. He called a couple of nights ago and told his mother he was dropping out, said he was taking off with friends to France or some other place. Who the hell knows? You were one of his teachers?”
Potamos coughed. “Yes, I was, and I was very upset when I heard what had happened. He was such a good student, doing so well and with a fine career ahead of him in… in foreign service.”
Nebel’s father said nothing, and Potamos could hear a woman in the background asking who was on the phone. Nebel’s father yelled, “Some teacher at the school looking for Walter.”
Potamos said, “Did he tell you why he left, Mr. Nebel? I assume you’re his father.”
“Yeah, I’m his father and I don’t mind saying how disgusted I am. You sweat all your life to give your kids what you didn’t have and they turn their backs on you, walk away, go off with their freaky goddamn friends who never had to worry about paying a mortgage or tuition. What the hell do they call it, getting their heads together? I got my head together by going to work in a mill at fifteen, like my father did.”
“Yeah, I understand, I really do. He didn’t say why he was leaving?”
“No. He talked to the missus here.” Nebel’s mother came on the line.
“Mrs. Nebel, I’m Joe Potamos of Georgetown University. I was just told that Walter left school and I’m trying to get in touch with him. Maybe we could have a talk and change his mind. Did he tell you where he was going?”
“No, just what my husband told you, that he and some friends were going to go away for a while, do some traveling, I guess, what the young people seem to like to do these days.”
“Much to the chagrin of their parents,” said Potamos. “You know, Mrs. Nebel, a very close friend of his, Valerie Frolich, was murdered recently. I wonder if—”
“Yes, we read about it here. The poor girl. My heart goes out to her family. Her father is a United States senator.”
“Yes, I know. I was just wondering whether her death upset Walter to such an extent that he felt he had to get away.”
“I never thought of that.”
“He didn’t mention her murder?”
“No.”
“Mrs. Nebel, do you think he might still be in the Washington area, maybe hasn’t left yet for Europe?”
“I don’t know, Mr….”
“Potamos. Joe Potamos.”
“Mr. Potamos, I really don’t….” She’d been in control up until now. He heard her gasp against tears and then the sound of them filled his ear. She managed to say, “My husband and I are so upset. We had such plans for Walter. He was doing so well and… now this.”
“I’m really sorry, Mrs. Nebel. If you hear from Walter, please call me and let me know how to reach him. I think I might be helpful in steering him back in the right direction. If he reinstates himself quickly, he won’t suffer any penalty. Here’s my number.” He gave her his home number and Blackburn’s number, looking over at her to see if she objected. She evidently didn’t, or hadn’t heard.
Mrs. Nebel said, “Thank you for caring about our son, Mr….”
“Potamos. I liked Walter enough to take a personal interest in this matter. I’m sure everything will work out.”
He hung up and discussed the conversation with Blackburn. “Why would he run away?” she asked.
“I hope the obvious answer isn’t the right one,” he said. “One more call, to Nebel’s buddy, Sam Maruca.”
“Want something to eat?” she asked. “I make a good bowl of canned soup.”
“Love it.”
Maruca answered on the first ring.
“Mr. Maruca?” Potamos said.
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
Potamos introduced himself and said he’d like to meet with him to discuss Valerie Frolich.
“Why me?”
“Well, you or Walter Nebel. The problem is that Nebel seems to have flown the coop. Know where he is?”
“No. Look, Mr. Potamos, I’ve already talked to the police. I told them everything they wanted to know about what Walter was doing that night.”
“What was he doing?”
“Studying with me for a final.”
“I heard—”
“I don’t care what you heard. Hey, who’s been spreading rumors about me?”
“Doesn’t matter, but it might make sense to straighten them out with me before they go any farther.”
Maruca’s laugh was more a snort. He said in a voice that matched it, “Talk to the press and have it all over the papers.”
“I’m not writing about it—yet. I’m just trying to find out more about Valerie Frolich. That’s it, I promise. I can get your view of things or I can go with what I have, including the fact that one of Valerie’s boyfriends has a fight with her the night she’s killed, cooks up an alibi with his buddy and the two of them lie to the police.” Maruca started to say something, but Potamos kept going. “Now this boyfriend suddenly drops out of school a few weeks before the semester is over, disappears, claims he’s going to Europe with friends…. Come on, Mr. Maruca, this isn’t some classroom exercise in how to give an embassy party. This is murder we’re talking about.”
“I told you, I’ve already given the police my statement.”
“And I should sit down with the police and give them the other side of the tale. They’d be interested, probably spend lots of time with you. Your choice. Spend a little off-the-record time with me, or lots of it in the rubber room.”
“Huh?”
“Rubber room. Soundproof, a bright light, and some cheap garden hose.”
“You don’t scare me.”
“I don’t mean to.” Potamos winked at Blackburn, who was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. “Look, Maruca, this is Sunday, my day off. I don’t need to spend it on the phone trying to convince some goddamn college student it would be in his best interests to talk to me for a half-hour.”
Maruca sighed and muttered a few epithets.
“Where do you live?” Potamos asked. “I’ll come right over, won’t take up more than twenty minutes of your time.”
“I have to be somewhere in an hour.”
/> “I’m on my way.”
***
Maruca lived in a well-kept Georgetown Federal row house on a fashionable street a few blocks off Wisconsin Avenue. Potamos recognized the house. It had been the first property bought by Marshall Jenkins for use as low-cost housing for college students. At the press conference on its steps, Jenkins had explained that he felt giving students safe and pleasant housing would be of great value to their educational process, and to the future of the United States of America. Then he broke into a big smile and said, “Obviously, this does not represent true altruism. This house, and others I intend to buy, will increase in value. Because I do not need income from these properties right now, I’m able to allow deserving students to live in them at minimal rates. This is really why I’m doing it—it makes me feel good.”
The press generally applauded Jenkins for his project. He obviously had good PR counsel; acknowledging in his remarks that the houses represented sound investment strategy took the wind out of the cynics’ sails.
Potamos read three names above doorbells at the top of the steps. Maruca occupied the ground floor. Potamos rang the bell and heard it sound inside. The door was opened by a handsome young man wearing a maize chamois shirt, jeans cut off at the thigh, and leather sandals. He had an olive complexion, and his face had a sensual placidness to it highlighted by large, brooding brown eyes. His head was covered by a mass of tight black curls.
“Mr. Maruca?”
“Yes. You’re Potamos?”
“That’s right. I got here as quick as I could.” He laughed, and looked toward the street. “They’re right—a parking space in Georgetown is worth more than a whole house. I finally parked over there.” He pointed to his red Datsun, which he’d managed to wedge between two cars in a space almost exactly the length of the Datsun. “I hope they can get out.”
“It’s all right,” said Maruca. “The tan Toyota’s mine. We’ll be leaving together.”
Maruca led Potamos down a short hall. The floor was highly polished oak. Large, expensively framed Kandinsky and Matisse prints dominated lemon-colored walls.
The living room was to the right. A phone rang as Potamos entered it. Maruca excused himself and disappeared to the rear of the apartment, leaving Potamos to take in his surroundings. Three couches formed a conversation pit in front of windows that faced the street. A rack that held custom stereo components, a twenty-five inch television monitor, and a VCR was at the opposite end of the large room. Tan wall-to-wall carpeting was velvet and thick. One wall contained original oils and watercolors; Potamos recognized some of them as being by Washington artist Yuriko Yamaguchi. A large Italian marble hand sculptured by Mortimer Haber stood on a pedestal in a corner, twin spotlights hitting it from two sides. All in all, it was an impressively furnished and decorated room, not the usual college student’s apartment. Times have changed, he told himself as he closely examined the stereo equipment.
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