Murder in Georgetown

by Margaret Truman

  “No philosophical cop-outs, Joe. Are you happy?”

  “Yeah, I am. I have my moments, but…”

  “Are you going with someone?”

  “Nah, just a casual thing.”

  “Casual? Sure?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Could we have dinner some night, just the two of us?”

  “Sure, why not? You have a problem?”

  “No, but it’s been a long time since we talked about something other than the kids’ grades and health. We shared a lot, Joe, and it might be nice to talk it over. I’m not suggesting anything like getting back together. In fact, I’ve been going with someone for a while now. Just casual.”

  He squinted at her. “You sure?”

  “As sure as you are. Go on, I know you’re anxious to get back. Just think about it, and if you feel like it some night, call me.”

  “Call you. You sound like Gardello. I will, Patty. Take care.”

  The phone was ringing at his condo when he came through the door. Jumper leaped all over him as he headed across the living room and picked it up. “Joe, it’s Roseann.”

  “Hi. I didn’t figure I’d hear from you until tomorrow. I was with the kids. We pigged out on ice cream and popcorn in the movie.”

  “Sounds nice. Joe, Tony Fiamma has been calling every fifteen minutes. He says he has to talk to you. He sounds… well, desperate.”

  “He say what he wanted?”

  “No, just that he must talk with you tonight. He gave me a number.”

  Potamos wrote it down. “Thanks, Roseann. We’ll catch up tomorrow?”

  “Yes. Don’t call before noon, though. Okay?”

  “Sure. Play good, sleep good, and we’ll do something special tomorrow.”

  “Oh, sounds exciting. Like what?”

  “I don’t know—fancy dinner, maybe. You’d like that?”

  “Sure. I’m not playing. I had a wedding date canceled, which doesn’t cause me a twinge of regret. Have a good night.”

  He walked Jumper and made himself a drink before calling the number she’d given him. Fiamma answered the moment the first ring sounded. “Jesus, man, where’ve you been?”

  Potamos started to recount his day, then realized Fiamma wasn’t looking for that. “What’s up, Tony?”

  “I’m being spooked, man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You remember they broke into my room and turned it upside down?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Again.” His voice took on a hysterical tone. “Again, man. Not only that, I got a call from a newspaper publisher, the guy who puts out the Eye. You know him, Goldson?”

  “Of course I know him. By the way, Tony, why the hell didn’t you—”

  “I did a story for him, a beauty. I was going to tell you after it came out, let you see how good I was.”

  “And?”

  “They busted into his offices last night and took my story, the notes I left with him, the works.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “How do I know? Maybe the cops.”

  “Why suspect them? Did they know about the diary or the story you did?”

  “Somebody did. Look, they didn’t get the rest of the diary. I still have it, but I think maybe you were right, that we both should have a copy.”

  “It’s about time.”

  “I can give it to you tonight.”

  “All right, but why don’t you get it copied first?”

  “I don’t have time. I figured I’d give it to you and you could get the copies.”

  “No problem. What time do you want to meet, and where?”

  “Someplace private, man.”

  “I’ll come to your room.”

  “Don’t be stupid. How about your place?”

  “Here?” Potamos realized he didn’t want Fiamma knowing where he lived, but he didn’t have a choice. “Okay,” he said. “Eight o’clock.” He gave him the address. “You allergic to dogs?”

  “Huh?”

  “I have one. See you at eight. And don’t ever call me stupid again.”

  He settled in to read Edmund Wilson’s The Forties. He’d read Wilson’s books on the Thirties and Twenties and was anxious to share the author’s perceptions of another decade. It was quality time. There hadn’t been an opportunity recently to read a book and he missed it.

  He went to the kitchen at eight and started his drip coffee maker in anticipation of Fiamma’s arrival. He had beer in the refrigerator, and pretzels. Half a packaged coffee cake was too stale even for the dog and he dumped it.

  He tried to get back to his book, but too many things crowded his thoughts—the conversation with Patty, the day with the kids, seeing Roseann tomorrow, and, of course, seeing the rest of Valerie Frolich’s diary. There wasn’t much of interest in the new pages. Most dealt with feelings she had about her father, few of which were favorable. She alluded to his “womanizing,” and to how destructive it was to her mother. Even more pronounced were her feelings about his political posture. She considered him a hypocrite and, worse, a public servant whose only motivations were the needs of his rich and powerful friends, and his own checkbook. It started Potamos wondering how his own kids viewed him.

  Nine o’clock. It wouldn’t have surprised him if Fiamma was one of those people who were chronically late, a symbol of arrogance directed toward all those who were left waiting. He hadn’t been late before, however; he’d arrived at the Florida Avenue Grill right on time.

  Ten. Ten-thirty. He called the number Roseann had given him. There was no answer. He called the number belonging to Fiamma’s girlfriend. She answered, sounded as though she’d been sleeping.

  “This is Joe Potamos from the Washington Post. I’m looking for Tony.”

  “Tony who?”

  “Tony… hey, is he there? He was supposed to meet me two and a half hours ago.”

  “I don’t know where he is and I couldn’t care less.”

  “Oh. You broke up?”

  “Something like that. Try the little blonde from F. Scott’s. She’s got a new car. That’s what Tony dates—cars, newer and fancier models each time.”

  “Hey, look, I don’t know about Tony’s romantic life, but I do know he might be in trouble, serious trouble. Forget the blonde from F. Scott’s and tell me where I might find him.”

  “Try the little blonde. She’ll know. He was with her last night.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Bimbo.”

  “Come on.”

  “Audrey.”

  “She works there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Tell Tony he’s a creep.”

  “With conviction. Thanks again.”

  He wanted to go look for Fiamma but was afraid he’d miss him if Fiamma eventually showed up. Finally, a few minutes before midnight, he drove to Fiamma’s rooming house. The front door was locked. Knock and wake up the landlady? Maybe later, if all else failed.

  F. Scott’s was doing a booming business. There was a long line of yuppies on Thirty-sixth Street waiting to get in. Music from inside kept everyone happy out on the sidewalk. Potamos parked in front of the nearest hydrant, flipped down his visor to display his press placard, and pushed past everyone to get to the front door. A few people in line shouted at him. He said to a young man guarding the door, “I’m Joe Potamos from the Washington Post. I have to get in to talk to one of your employees. It’s urgent.”

  The door watcher frowned and gave him a now-I’ve-heard-it-all look. Potamos produced his press credentials and said calmly, but with quiet conviction, “This has to do with murder, my friend. I need ten minutes inside, no more. Deny me that and I’ll write about every roach who ever sticks his head inside this place.”

  “We don’t have roaches.”

  “You will, by the dozen.”

  “Look, mister, I’m not supposed to—”

  “Thanks,” Potamos said, moving in the direction of the mu
sic.

  The inside of F. Scott’s was like a movie set, and everybody looked like they’d just finished shooting a high-gloss Hollywood film. He reached the bar and caught the bartender’s eye. “I’m looking for a waitress named Audrey.” He showed his press card and briefly explained the urgency of the situation. The bartender pointed to a petite little blonde who was in the process of serving a tray of fancy, jelly-bean-colored drinks.

  “Audrey?” He startled her. “Sorry. My name’s Joe Potamos. I work for the Washington Post, and I’m a friend of Tony’s.”

  Her round little face burst into a smile. “Sure, he told me all about it.”

  “‘It’?”

  “About working with you on the murder story.”

  A long list of things he wanted to say to Fiamma raced through his mind, none of them complimentary. He said to Audrey, “Where is Tony?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You were with him last night.”

  “Yeah, but that was last night. He said he was busy for the weekend.”

  “What? The music is loud.”

  “They turn it up later.”

  “I’ll be sure to hang around.”

  She repeated what she’d said.

  “No idea where I can find him? He was supposed to come by my place more than four hours ago. He never showed.”

  She shrugged and started toward the bar. He followed. “Let me ask you something else,” Potamos said when they reached the bar. “Did he say anything about an envelope he was supposed to give me?”

  “No.”

  “He didn’t? Did he give anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “Sometimes a guy will give something to his girlfriend for safekeeping because he trusts her. I know he trusts you. He told me.”

  “He did?”

  “Yeah, more than once.”

  “Gee, he told me not to…”

  “Not to tell anybody, right? But he meant anybody. I’m not anybody. We’re working together, remember, and that envelope and what’s in it is our whole story, Tony’s by-line in the Washington Post. His whole career rides on it, and if I don’t have it tonight, we may lose the story.”

  She obviously was grappling with a big dilemma. The bartender told her to get back on the floor. She was flustered, looked around, then said to Potamos, “If you can’t find him, I guess you can have it.”

  “Good. When?”

  “I get off at two.”

  “Great, I’ll wait.”

  “No, try to find Tony. I’d feel better about it.”

  “All right, but I’ll be back at two. Don’t leave without me.”

  “I won’t.”

  Nevertheless, he decided to just wait outside in his car in case Audrey decided to skip out early. A bird in hand…

  He returned to the club precisely at two. This time the fellow at the door didn’t question him, and he walked in. He didn’t see Audrey and panicked, then saw her come from a back room. She’d changed into civilian clothing. She was cute, bubbly and bouncy, all round, no sharp edges. She saw him and came directly to him. “Did you find Tony?”

  “No.” Potamos laughed to keep concern out of his voice. “That’s Tony, always disappearing on me at the wrong time. Where do you live?”

  “A couple of blocks.”

  “My car’s outside.”

  “We can walk.”

  “I’m at a hydrant.”

  They drove to a strip of stores, above which were tiny apartments. One belonged to Audrey, whose last name was Jankovich, which she would change to Janko if she made it as a dancer, which she was studying very hard to be; it wasn’t easy when you didn’t have any money and had to work nights at F. Scott’s. She was so proud of Tony’s working with Potamos and just knew they’d make it big together—not that Potamos hadn’t already, but Tony had told her there’d been some kind of trouble in Potamos’s career and Tony felt what he had about the murder would help Potamos out of it.

  All that in a few blocks, and not one four-letter word passed Potamos’s lips as they drove them.

  The apartment consisted of one room, with a pullman kitchen off to one side. The walls were plastered with huge posters of dancers, most of them male. A sofa bed had been left unmade.

  “This is exciting,” Audrey said, kicking off her shoes and doing a spin in the center of the room. “I really feel I’m part of it all.”

  “You are,” Potamos said, sorry he had to fake it, and slightly uncomfortable with carnal thoughts that the rumpled bed and the rear view of her as she did toe-touches caused in him. “Audrey…” he said.

  She looked at him upside down through her legs. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” He wiggled his fingers.

  She straightened up and faced him, hands on her hips. “I get carried away after working all night as a waitress. I just can’t wait to get home and dance.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.” It was his best understanding grin. “The envelope. I have to get it back to the paper. We’re on a tight deadline.” He made a point of looking at his watch. “Damn, we’re already over deadline. Let me get out of here and get it done. Then you and Tony and me and my girlfriend can celebrate. How’d that be?”

  “Terrific.” She made a few more dancers’ motions, then opened the refrigerator and pulled out a thick envelope, handed it to him. “Here it is.”

  “Great.” He wanted to kiss her.

  “Where will we celebrate?”

  “You name it.”

  “I can’t wait to see Tony.”

  “Neither can I. Take it easy, and good luck with the dancing.” He bounded down the stairs and broke the speed limit getting home.

  | Chapter Twenty-two |

  The first call to Potamos Sunday morning was from Marvin Goldson, publisher of the Georgetown Eye. It was seven o’clock; Potamos had fallen asleep at six after spending what was left of the night reading Valerie Frolich’s complete diary.

  “Did you hear what happened to me?” Goldson barked into the phone.

  Potamos held the receiver away from his ear and groaned.

  “Joe, it’s Marvin Goldson.”

  “I know it is.”

  “Joe, remember we were talking at the club about that protégé of yours, Tony Fiamma?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And I told you he wrote quite a story for us about what’s really behind the building of that condo near the new Russian Embassy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Somebody broke into my office and stole the goddamn thing.”

  “I know.”

  “He told you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No.”“I need to find him. I want him to write it again. He’ll remember what he wrote.”

  “I told you, Marv, I don’t know where he is.”

  “Boy, would I love to know who broke in! Could have been anybody—the Russians, CIA, FBI, a competitor… Hey, you didn’t tell anybody about the story, did you?” Before Potamos could answer, Goldson said, “I always trusted you, Joe. It’s just a little weekly paper, you know? Did you tell anybody at the Post?”

  “No.” Jumper came from where she’d been sleeping at the foot of the bed and licked his face. He pushed her away and said to Goldson, “Marv, I just got to bed. I’m sorry about what happened, and if I hear from Tony, I’ll have him call you right away. How’s that?”

  “Okay. You know, Joe, it could have been anybody. That rich fruitcake Marshall Jenkins is behind that condo, and his buddy Frolich is with him. The State Department? Maybe even the West Germans? Jenkins is married to a German, and Fiamma’s article got into Jenkins’s West German holdings, which, Joe, are bigger than the national debt of Uganda.”

  “Marv, I have to go. Fiamma will call you.”

  “Good, great, thanks, Joe. See you at the club.”

  Nothing Goldson had said was news to Potamos. Not that any of it could be proved. Valerie had jotted down all sorts of disjointed
notes based upon overhearing her father discuss the condo project. According to her, the condo’s genesis and purposes was to provide a site for counter-electronics against the Russians’ sophisticated equipment within their new embassy. But nowhere did she indicate having possession of a single piece of paper to support her claims. Potamos could understand Fiamma going ahead with the zeal and blind faith of a young person, but he was disappointed in Marv Goldson, who’d been around long enough to know better.

  “Where are you, Tony Fiamma?” he asked as he turned over and welcomed sleep’s return.

  It was short-lived. The phone rang at eight. It was Gil Gardello. “Sorry to wake you, Joe, but I need you. They found a body in some woods just north of Georgetown U. I sent an intern up there to nail us down, but—”

  “Male?”

  “Yeah, about twenty, twenty-two.”

  “Give it to me,” Potamos said, springing to a sitting position and pushing magazines and books from his night table in search of pencil and paper.

  He was dressed in minutes, grabbed the envelope containing Valerie Frolich’s diary, threw a leash on Jumper, and walked her in a grassy area near the garage. He didn’t want to take the time to go back upstairs, so he put her in the car, tossed the envelope in the trunk, and headed for the location given him by Gardello.

  The scene was swarming with police and media. Potamos locked Jumper in the car and made his way through the crowd, showed his pass to an officer in charge of the crime scene, and was allowed to join a group of press and police halfway down a steep, heavily wooded slope that ended at a narrow creek. He could see the body from where he was made to stop. Two detectives in civilian clothing were with two white-coated medical types and a couple of uniforms, all of them bent over the body, which had been placed in a black body bag.

  “Hey, Joe, got an I.D.?” a reporter from another newspaper asked.

  Potamos shook his head and kept his eyes trained on the scene.

  “Maybe another student,” the reporter said.

  Potamos ignored him and tried to move a little closer. He was restrained by a cop. “Pete Languth here?” Potamos asked.

  “Down there,” the cop said.

  Potamos handed him his card and asked him to give it to Languth.

  “Can’t do it,” the cop said.