Murder in Georgetown

by Margaret Truman

  A few minutes later Maruca reappeared. “Sorry,” he said.

  “That’s okay,” Potamos said. “That wouldn’t have been Walter Nebel, would it?”

  “No. He’s gone.”

  “Know where?”

  “No.”

  “Know why?”

  “No.”

  “The kid did a dumb thing, running like this.”

  Maruca’s smile was crooked as he said, “What’s the big deal? Who cares?”

  Potamos said, “Valerie Frolich’s family might care. The MPD might care. How’s that for starters?”

  “Look, Potamos, I didn’t want you here in the first place and I’ll be damned if I’ll have you in my house and take this kind of crap.”

  “Call it what you want, Maruca, but I think you’d better take another look at this whole thing because you, buddy, are in the middle of it.”

  Maruca glared at him. “Walter Nebel and I studied together the night Valerie was killed. That’s that. I told the police, and so did Walter. End of story.”

  “What about the other version, the one where Nebel has a fight with her that night, drives around alone, then cooks up an alibi with you? That plays for me.”

  “It’s not true.”

  “Maybe, maybe not, but I think Sergeant Languth at MPD would be more than happy to take another look, in another light, if I go to him with it.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The way I see it is this. Nebel fights with her and does what most jilted young guys do—go out, get drunk, take a long drive, come home and fall asleep. But now the story gets unusual. He wakes up, hears that his girlfriend has been found in the canal, her head bashed in. Panic. They’ll think it was me, he figures, so he goes to his buddy, Sam Maruca, and says, ‘Hey, Sam, here’s what happened and I don’t need this kind of trouble, not with a cushy career in foreign service ahead of me. We studied together all night. Right?’ And his buddy, Maruca, says, ‘Right.’ How’s that play for you?”

  “It doesn’t. In the first place, Walter Nebel and I weren’t buddies, just students in the same school.”

  “But he did date Valerie Frolich. Right?”

  “I guess so. He dated lots of girls.”

  “And he did fight with her that night after the barge party.”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Potamos bit his lip and went to the window, turned and said, “Did it ever occur to you that maybe Walter Nebel did kill Valerie Frolich? If you provide an alibi for him out of friendship, you might be shielding a murderer. If that’s the way it eventually falls, Maruca, your future in a cushy diplomatic job is as promising as a gay black with a felony record making it to the White House. Thanks for your time.”

  Maruca followed Potamos to the front door. Potamos said, “You live good, Maruca. Marshall Jenkins furnish it for you, too?”

  “Some.”

  “That’s nice. What’s it cost you?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “True, but I think I’ll make it my business, too. I think I’ll make you and Nebel a priority on my list.” He opened the door and stepped out onto the steps. “You moving your car?”

  “Later. Lots of luck getting out.” He slammed the door behind Potamos.

  A few minutes later Potamos struggled to inch his car from its cramped space. He saw Maruca watching through the living-room window and gave the bumper of the tan Toyota a hard shot, looked toward Maruca, winked, and drove away.

  | Chapter Twelve |

  “Hello, Joe,” a waiter said as Potamos entered Martin’s Tavern. He wiggled his fingers in front of his mouth as though holding a cigar and said, “They’re getting younger all the time.” He nodded toward a booth in which Anne Lewis sat. “She’s looking for you.”

  Potamos said, “Strictly business.”

  “Yeah, it’s a tough life.”

  Potamos introduced himself to Lewis and sat across from her. He liked her looks: pretty face with big eyes and a quick, genuine smile. Her hair was brown and short, neat like the rest of her. She had a nice figure, at least from the waist up, a full bosom pressing against the beige sweater.

  “You feel like something to eat?” Potamos asked.

  “Sure, that’d be nice.” She ordered a mushroom omelet and white wine. He had Welsh rarebit and a beer. They chatted about general topics until she brought up Valerie Frolich. “I’ve been reading your articles,” she said. “They’re really good.”

  “Thanks. It gets tougher as the information dries up. I thought maybe you could give me a fresh angle.”

  She smiled, obviously flattered to be asked, and said, “Let’s see… I suppose I could tell you about Valerie, but you’ve already covered that.”

  “Unless you have something brand-new to offer.”

  “I really don’t. We were friends only because we’re both journalism majors. Valerie was bright and popular. It’s beyond my comprehension how anyone could do such a thing, unless it was someone who was very, very mad at her.”

  Potamos couldn’t suppress the grin. “I’d say that’s a given, wouldn’t you?”

  She was a little embarrassed. “What I mean is that there’s two kinds of murder, premeditated and one coming out of passion. Know what I mean, Mr. Potamos? I read your piece on the autopsy, and when you said that the medical examiner characterized the blows to the head as being ‘random’ and ‘multiple,’ I started thinking about the difference.”

  Potamos sipped his beer and studied her across the table. There was no hesitation in her speech. She knew what she thought and wasn’t reluctant to express it. “Go on,” Potamos said. “You were talking about—”

  “The difference between types of murders. When I read what the medical examiner said, I realized there’s a good possibility that it wasn’t murder.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Let’s assume that Valerie simply had a fight with someone who was capable of sufficient anger to strike out at her, take a swing.”

  “The blows were multiple, and involved a blunt object, like a rock.”

  “I know, but sometimes when you’re angry, really angry, you deliver that first blow and then keep hitting. Haven’t you ever experienced that?”

  “No, but I understand what you mean. Okay, let’s assume it was an accident, that somebody didn’t want to hurt Valerie but, in a fit of anger, lashed out, too hard and too often. Who’d she know that could get that mad at her?”

  Lewis sighed and ate some of her omelet. “Valerie had a funny side of her, Mr. Potamos. She was beautiful and popular, but she went through boyfriends like…” She looked down at her plate and smiled. “Like omelets. Guys would fall madly in love with her and then she’d dump them, cruelly sometimes.”

  Potamos nodded. “Okay, potentially a jilted boyfriend had it out with her and got physical. Any names?”

  She shook her head. “As I said, she dated a lot. I suppose you could just go down a list. Of course, there were others, too, who had reason to be angry with her.”

  “Like?”

  “Like… her father, that’s for sure.”

  “Senator John Frolich? No. He was her father. Fathers don’t go around beating up their daughters, at least not fathers like John Frolich.”

  Lewis’s smile was cynical.

  “You know something to change that view?”

  “Senator Frolich is not a man without a temper.”

  “He doesn’t come off that way in public,” said Potamos. “Bastion of reason, cool-headed, a real leader.”

  “And with a bad temper when it came to certain aspects of his life.”

  “Like his daughter?”

  “Yes. I don’t know whether you’re aware that my father and Senator Frolich are very close friends.”

  “Sure, Paul Lewis. Your dad’s an important lobbyist in town.”

  “That’s right. His most important client is the South African gold consortium.”

  “I know.”

  “And you probably also know that
Senator Frolich’s voting record in the Senate on South Africa is pro right down the line.”

  Potamos laughed. “Your father must be effective.”

  “My father knows how to wield influence.”

  “Your father’s friends with Marshall Jenkins, too?”

  “Of course.” There was scorn in her voice.

  “George Bowen?”

  “Uh-huh. They have a… well, I guess you could call it a cozy little club.”

  “Old-boy network?”

  “Exactly.”

  Potamos ordered another drink, then asked, “What does all this have to do with Valerie Frolich’s murder? Are you suggesting that her father and his friends had something to do with it?”

  “No. All I’m saying is that it’s possible that her father, in a fit of anger that night, hit his daughter.”

  “And killed her.”

  “Yes.”

  Potamos blew air through his lips and sat back. “That’s quite an accusation, Miss Lewis.”

  “I’m not accusing him. I’m just raising the possibility.”

  “Things were that bad between them, Valerie and her father?”

  “From my understanding, yes.”

  “Who provided you with that understanding, Valerie or her father?”

  “A little of both. Valerie was—how can I say this?—Valerie was not fond of her father. In fact… yes, I can go as far as to say that she hated him, hated what he stood for.”

  “Really? Politically?”

  “Yes, and personally. She told me more than once that she detested the way he treated her mother.”

  “Uh-huh. What did you get from his side?”

  “Nothing directly, but living in the same house with one of his dearest friends provides certain opportunities. I hear a lot.”

  “From your father.”

  “Yes. He talks to my mother, and sometimes the subject is Valerie Frolich and her father.”

  It suddenly struck Potamos that the pretty and bright young woman across from him was a little too matter-of-fact for his taste, particularly because she seemed to have no reservations about bringing up unsavory aspects of her own family’s life. He decided to mention it.

  Lewis said flatly, “If I thought I was doing something that would reflect unfavorably upon my own family, I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you. But, the fact is, Valerie Frolich is dead. Someone is going to discover why it happened, and who did it, and I’d just as soon be the one.”

  Now Potamos understood. She was a female Tony Fiamma, more genteel and certainly better-looking, but her motives were the same: Break the story, make a name, get the old career started with a bang. There was only one thing that didn’t square with that: “Miss Lewis, if you’re looking to investigate Valerie’s murder so that you can break the story, why talk to me? We’re in competition, and I might end up using everything you’ve told me for my own stories. What does that get you?”

  Her smile was big and pleasant and sexy. “Mr. Potamos, there’s a lot more that I know about Valerie Frolich and the circumstances of her life that might have led to her death. I thought you might be interested in having me work with you, sort of an assistant, a researcher.”

  “With a shared by-line.”

  “Sure. That would be only fair.”

  “And impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “Because… look, I don’t work with other people. Besides, you’re a student and, I might add, a potential suspect in the case, certainly a valuable source of information for the police.”

  “Suspect? Why would I have beaten Valerie to death? Do you really think I’d be capable of that?”

  “Physically? Sure. A rock is a rock is a rock, in anyone’s hands. I’m not suggesting it, but it does represent a certain reality.”

  “So does the fact that I might have information that would be useful to you. I don’t want to come off as impertinent, Mr. Potamos, but I know that after you wrote that big series on Senator Cables selling illegal arms to the Arabs, things went downhill. I have a feeling that breaking the Valerie Frolich story would be good for you.”

  “And good for you—if you helped me and shared credit.”

  “Is there anything wrong with that?”

  “Lots of things, Miss Lewis. Thanks for meeting me.” He waved for a check.

  “You seem offended,” she said.

  “Offended? Me? Hell, no. I lost that capacity a long time ago. It’s just that here’s a young woman with her head smashed in and her friends—yeah, okay, I’ll use the word—her friends are all looking to profit from it by making a score in journalism. Somehow, where I come from, that’s not nice.”

  “But practical. I didn’t kill Valerie, but I did know her, knew a lot about the way she lived, the people she dated… and I happen to live in a house in which Valerie’s family is not a foreign topic.”

  Potamos sighed and paid the bill. “Look, Miss Lewis, I don’t blame you for wanting to succeed and using what’s at your disposal. I probably would have done the same thing myself. It’s just that…”

  She reached across the table and placed a nicely tapered set of fingers on top of his hand. Her voice was soft. “Please let me work with you on the story.”

  The fingers radiated a wonderful warmth up his arm, around his chest and down. “Let me think about it,” he said.

  “You won’t be sorry. I really think I have the key to it.”

  “We’ll see,” Potamos said. He started to get up, sat, and said, “Did you ever date anyone who’d dated Valerie?”

  His question took her by surprise. She frowned, looked at him as though she were trying to get inside his head, then asked the obvious: “Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondered. Anyone else in the seminar date Valerie?”

  “Just… Steve.”

  “Steve McCarty.”

  “That’s right. I know you talked to him.”

  “How? He tell you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because… he just mentioned it. No reason.”

  “You ever date him?”

  She guffawed. “No, of course not.”

  He didn’t believe her but didn’t say so.

  They shook hands outside Martin’s. He said, “Keep in touch, Miss Lewis.”

  “Anne, please. My friends call me Annie. I hated it until recently.”

  “What changed?”

  “Me. I grew up.” She locked him in a seductive stare that didn’t miss its intended mark.

  He asked, “What about Professor Bowen and Valerie?”

  “What about them?”

  “Their relationship. Did it go beyond teacher-student?”

  She smiled. “Good question. The answer is even better. Please, call me. And thanks for dinner.”

  | Chapter Thirteen |

  It occurred to Potamos when he awoke Monday morning that he didn’t know to which of George Bowen’s offices he was supposed to go. Although Bowen wasn’t on staff at the Post, the paper served as the flagship publication for his syndicated column and provided an office for him. The main office for Bowen’s journalistic empire was located in an old, abandoned embassy building on Massachusetts Avenue that Marshall Jenkins had bought and converted into offices. Bowen had the top floor.

  A phone call straightened it out: Potamos was to be at the Mass. Ave. office at ten.

  He’d spent most of Sunday evening jotting down ideas about the Valerie Frolich case based upon his conversations with students from Bowen’s seminar, and with Sam Maruca and Walter Nebel’s parents. His primary interest in them was whether he could develop a story based upon what he’d learned. He decided he couldn’t; whatever he wrote would smack of innuendo and speculation. The only tangible piece of information he considered going with was Walter Nebel’s sudden disappearance, but to report it was potentially actionable. The kid had a right to drop out of school and take a trip. Maybe it had nothing to do with the murder. Potamos couldn’t shake th
e belief that it did, but what he believed didn’t matter, not without a solid reason to link Nebel’s disappearance to Valerie Frolich and to the alibi he had with Sam Maruca.

  The alibi. Potamos had doubts but, again, nothing to back them up. He didn’t like Maruca. In fact he realized as he took a long walk with Jumper before going to bed that he really didn’t like any of the students, with the possible exception of Bob Fitzgerald, who seemed to be the only one without an ax to grind, and who didn’t seem to be looking for gain out of Valerie’s murder.

  And then there was Senator Frolich. Ridiculous to think he’d beat his own daughter to death, but… what Anne Lewis had told him kept coming back.

  Now, looking across the large reception room at Bowen’s secretary, a matronly woman with blue hair and with a desk as neat as her coiffure, he tried to imagine Bowen’s reason for wanting to see him. He hadn’t had to respond. He didn’t work for Bowen, and Bowen didn’t work for the Post. But the reality was that Bowen wielded considerable weight with the paper’s higher-ups. He’d proved that last time around. What most intrigued Potamos, however, was the possibility that Bowen, in his roles as professor to Valerie Frolich and confidant to the Frolich family, might actually want to share something of importance with him. It was far-fetched, he knew, but more pleasant to contemplate than the alternatives.

  A buzzer sounded on the secretary’s intercom. She held down a button and Bowen’s voice said, “Send in Mr. Potamos.”

  The secretary held open a door and Potamos stepped into Bowen’s office, all dark wood and brass, a forest-green carpet spongy beneath his feet. Sunshine streamed through large windows behind where Bowen sat at his desk, rendering him a silhouette against the light. Potamos stood just inside the door and squinted.