“Come on,” Potamos said. “He’s waiting to see me.”
The cop yelled down the embankment, “Sergeant Languth, there’s somebody here says you want to see him.” Languth looked up the hill. Potamos waved. Languth looked down at the body bag, then labored up the hill, his feet slipping on wet leaves and mud, his face reflecting what was going on inside his overweight body.
“Who is it?” Potamos asked when Languth reached him. Other reporters crowded close to hear the reply.
“Come on,” Languth said, bumping people out of his way as he led Potamos up to street level. He was breathing heavily. “Damn, I hate hills,” he said, wiping sweat from his face with a well-used handkerchief.
“Age,” Potamos said. “Happens to us all.”
Languth looked at him and sneered. “I want to talk to you,” he said.
“Go ahead, I’m here. Who got it down there, a student named Fiamma? Anthony Fiamma?”
“Yeah, and no big surprise that you know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He’s your buddy, a couple a’ pains in the butt, only his pain’s in his head.” Languth looked pleased with his line.
Potamos took it differently. “He’s still alive? The bag… I thought…”
“He’s dead, very dead.”
“Jesus, I—”
“I can take you downtown, or we can get coffee. Your choice, Potamos.”
“Take me downtown? What kind of crap is that? Sure, let’s have coffee, only you buy this time.” It was a wasted threat. Cops never paid, especially when a reporter was involved. Languth had a conversation with the other detective who’d accompanied the body bag up the hill. Then he nodded at Potamos and walked toward his car. Potamos followed. “Where are we going?” Potamos asked, stopping at his car and putting the key in the lock.
“What the hell is that in there?” Languth asked. Jumper was beating against the window with her front paws and snarling at Languth.
“An African aardwolf.”
“Looks like a dog to me. I hate dogs.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
***
“…multiple head wounds, like the Frolich kid. What do you think of that, Joe?”
Potamos sat across from Languth in a booth in a greasy spoon on Wisconsin. Steaming coffee in chipped white mugs sat on the table. Languth had ordered a hamburger with onions, which hadn’t been delivered yet.
“Two now,” Potamos said, looking into his coffee. “Same M.O.” He glanced up. “You figured it out yet?”
“No. You? You and the deceased were pretty tight.”
“Meaning what?”
“You hung around together. What were you, some sort of guru for him?”
Potamos ignored the question and focused on his coffee mug.
Languth sat back as his hamburger was set in front of him. “Ketchup, huh, and some pickles. You got any slaw?” He turned to Potamos, “What were you and the kid up to, Joe?”
“Business.”
“With a college student?” He guffawed. “Come on, the kid knew Valerie Frolich, was in the same classes with her. He must have known her pretty well. What’d he do, pass on info to you for a story?”
Potamos shook his head. “Pete, get off it. Fiamma came to me and wanted to work together on the Frolich story. He didn’t have anything to offer, but he did have a drive. You know what I mean? He wanted a career in journalism and thought I could help.”
“Did you?”
“Help him? Couldn’t, but I liked him. He reminded me a little of myself when I was his age, all brass and no brains. Well, that’s not true. He was smart, street-smart, like a cop.”
“If I was smart I would have never been a cop,” Languth said, sounding as though he meant it.
“It could be worse. Besides, looking back is a dumb exercise. Hey, what was that routine about taking me downtown?”
A shrug, then a bite of the burger that wiped out half of it and sent a trickle of ketchup down his chin. He wiped it off and said, “I consider you a suspect, Joe.”
“Wonderful.” Potamos extended his hands across the table. “Cuff me, Pete.”
“I only do that with friends. Potamos I’m serious. You’ve been observed spending a lot of time with the deceased recently. You’ve been observed meeting with him and exchanging material.”
Potamos smiled, then broke into laughter. “You’ve been following me?”
“I ordered surveillance.”
“Following me.”
“Whatever. What were you doing with him?”
“With who, Fiamma?”
“No, Jerry Falwell. Who the hell else would I be talking about?”
“Nothing. I told you, he came to me for help in getting started in the business.”
“What’d he give you at the Florida Avenue Grill the other morning?”
“His résumé.”
“Get off it.”
“And clips, things he’d written.”
“Like the story for the Georgetown Eye?”
Potamos widened his eyes and nodded. “You broke into Goldson’s office, huh?”
“Broke in? Come on, Joe, I’m a cop, a protector of rights.”
“I forgot. No, I never saw that story. How was it?”
“Interesting.”
“So I heard. How come you didn’t break into my place?”
“I don’t have to.” Languth pulled a search warrant from his pocket and handed it across the table.
“This is the dumbest thing I ever heard.”
“I can execute it, or you can invite me over after coffee and let me look around, only put that goddamn dog someplace.”
“The dog goes with the territory. Love me, love my dog.” Languth wasn’t amused, so Potamos said, “I’ll put her in the bathroom. Of course, you’ll want to check that room, too—toilet tank, top of the shower—so then I’ll put her in the bedroom, after, of course, you’ve messed that up.”
“I don’t find you cute.”
“I think you’re adorable,” Potamos said, grabbing the grease-stained green check and standing. “Come on, I’ll open the castle for you.”
It occurred to Potamos as he led Languth to his condo that the time spent having coffee had nothing to do with coffee or hamburgers or talk. Languth had wanted to detain him. Why? Had they broken into his apartment while he sat in the booth? Unlikely. If so, why bother with the warrant and going to his apartment now? Actually, he was glad they’d spent the time together parrying and thrusting. It had taken his mind off the tragedy of Fiamma’s murder. That hit him when they were halfway to the condo, and he felt a rush of anger and fear and confusion and myriad other emotions. Until that moment in the car, Jumper sitting proudly next to him, her ears and eyes taking in every movement outside, Fiamma’s death hadn’t been real—a body in the woods, cops and medics at the scene, something he’d seen too many times before. But Fiamma’s face now covered the windshield, and his brash voice rang in Potamos’s ears. He slowed down to avoid running into the car in front of him, checked his rearview mirror, and saw Languth a few car lengths behind.
He came back to reality, which meant wondering what to do with the envelope in the trunk. All he wanted now was to get rid of Languth, hide the pages, and call Roseann. She still had those initial pages in the piano bench. He’d get them out of there that afternoon. It wasn’t fair to lay that on her. Look at Audrey, Fiamma’s girlfriend, who’d been used the same way he’d used Roseann. He’d square it as soon as Languth left.
Thinking of Roseann picked up his spirits. They’d do something special, as he’d promised, maybe take a long walk, make love, go to the best restaurant in Washington. His final thought as he pulled up in front of his building was that he’d marry her on the spot, maybe propose that afternoon, and if she accepted, they could drive down to North Carolina, where it was easy. Maryland wasn’t hard, but it wouldn’t work there overnight.
Languth parked behind him and came to Potamos’s door
. Jumper acted vicious, and Languth stepped back a little as Potamos grabbed her leash and stepped out. He realized he enjoyed seeing the big, hulking cop afraid of something. If Languth knew all the dog wanted to do was jump all over him and lick his face, he wouldn’t be afraid, so Potamos played it to the hilt, held the leash short and spoke sternly to her, as though only he could stave off the rabid mutilation of Sergeant Peter Languth. He had an idea. If he left Jumper in the car, it might discourage Languth from searching it. He said, “Look, I’ll leave her here if you’re afraid. She’s used to it. I leave her all the time when I’m on assignment.” He didn’t wait for a response, put Jumper back in the car, and locked the door behind him.
He put the keys in his pocket and was about to walk into the building when he spotted Blackburn’s white Chevy station wagon turning the corner. “Forgot something,” he said, quickly going to his car and shaking his head at her, hopefully enough to wave her off, hopefully not overt enough for Languth to see it. She slowed down; he gave her a jerk of his thumb, his body shielding the motion from Languth. Her expression was one of puzzlement. Then she speeded up and continued down the street.
Potamos turned, smiled, and started toward Languth.
“What’d you forget?” Languth asked.
“Ah… I didn’t forget anything. I remembered I didn’t forget anything.” He laughed. “Too early for me, Pete. Come on, look around, and don’t forget the cookie jar, or the Tupperware containers with Chinese from six weeks ago. Just don’t breathe deep.”
“You’re not funny, Joe.”
“This isn’t funny, Pete.”
Languth spent an hour searching the apartment, and Potamos had to give it to him for thoroughness. He didn’t miss a thing, including the containers with old food in the refrigerator.
“So?” Potamos said when Languth appeared to be getting ready to leave.
“So nothing. You going to level with me?”
“About what?”
“About Fiamma. Did he have something on the Frolich case?”
“Nope. All he had was some theories about the Russian Embassy and the condo going up near it. But you know that. You read his story.”
“I’m going to break this case, Joe. Count on it. When I do, whoever’s involved is going down the tube, with me pushing all the way.”
“I hope so. Two kids murdered in their prime. It stinks.”
“That’s right. How come they sent you to cover the thing this morning?”
“What do you mean? Why shouldn’t I cover it? I’m a crime reporter.”
“You’re off the Frolich story.”
“You know that.”
“Yeah. What’d they bounce you for?”
“I flunked a loyalty test. They give it once a month.”
“Bowen.”
“Right.”
“Like before.”
“Right again. How’d you hear?”
“We get the results of the monthly loyalty tests.”
Potamos smiled. “Good line, Pete.”
“Don’t screw me, Joe. That tube’s open to everybody.”
“We’re on the same side, Pete. Believe it.”
Potamos wondered if he should accompany Languth downstairs. He decided against it. It would make it easier for Languth to ask for the key to the car trunk. He said, “Take it easy, Pete.”
“You, too.” He opened the door, then turned and said, “You know what I think, Joe?”
“What?”
“I still think Bowen’s the one.”
“That what, killed Frolich and Fiamma?”
“Yeah.”
“No, Pete, as much as I hate the guy, it doesn’t add up.” He was touched by Languth’s statement of personal opinion—it created an instant, momentary bond between them, colleagues exchanging information. But Potamos held his reaction in check. He wasn’t about to exchange anything with Languth.
Languth started through the door, and stopped again. “What about the dog? You going to leave it down there?”
“Oh, I’ll come down later. I like her in the car. Better than any security system. She’s a killer.”
“Yeah? She comes at me, she’s dead.” He patted his revolver beneath his coat and closed the door behind him.
“Psychopath,” Potamos muttered. He went to the window and looked down at the street, saw Languth walking to his car, saw Blackburn parked at the end of the block. He waited until Languth drove away, then bolted down the emergency exit stairs. Outside, he waved to Roseann. She didn’t see him. He ran up the block and knocked on her window. She looked up, smiled, and unlocked the door.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” he asked.
She got out of her car and threw her arms around him. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
“About what?”
“They came to my place. They had a warrant. They pulled everything apart, and they found the pages you gave me to keep.” She started to cry.
He held her tight and said over and over, “It’s okay, it’s okay, don’t worry about it.”
“They were the police, Joe. The police! In my apartment!”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry, damn it, I’m sorry.”
She pulled back. “He was a cop, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah. He searched my place, found nothing.”
She suddenly stiffened, turned from him, and placed her hands on the top of her car. “I don’t want it, Joe,” she said.
“Huh?”
“I don’t want this.” She faced him again. “This isn’t me, cops in my apartment. Please understand, I’m a musician, a piano player.”
“Simplicity.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. They followed me, must have seen me going into your place.”
“I…”
“Yeah?”
“I love you, Joe.”
“I love you, too.”
“I never want to see you again.”
“Will you marry me?”
She stared at him as though he had three heads and had stepped from an alien spaceship.
“Tonight. We can drive to North Carolina. It’s easy there, and we can come back Mr. and Mrs. Joe Potamos.”
She started to laugh, pressed her fist against her mouth, laughed louder, and said, “Joe, please, don’t think I’m laughing at you. It’s just that you’re… you’re crazy.”
“I’m in love.”
“Joe… no!”
“You won’t marry me?”
“That’s right, no, absolutely not.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“I’m glad.”
“Yeah, because I’m a loser, a jerk, a banana. My father knew that years ago. Okay, go, take off. I have to get Jumper.”
“Joe?”
“What?”
“Will you call me, after all this is over?”
“You want me to?”
“Yes, I do.”
He beamed. “You bet.”
| Chapter Twenty-three |
Things had happened in such rapid sequence that it wasn’t until later Sunday afternoon that the full impact of Fiamma’s murder hit Potamos. He sank into a deep depression, compounded by losing Blackburn. Sure, she’d invited him to call when everything was over, and that had pleased him initially. But now, in the quiet of his living room, with Jumper curled up against his feet, a different reality set in: that he’d never see her again; that she’d find it easy, even pleasant, to be away from him; that she’d find another guy, probably a bass player or a drummer, and that would be that—end of story.
He realized he missed Tony Fiamma. Tony’s brashness and arrogance had been invigorating. He went to the paper at five and wrote a brief news story about Fiamma’s murder. There was so much he wanted to include from his personal experiences and thoughts, but knew he couldn’t. The headline writers would probably say: SECOND STUDENT MURDERED. As simple as that.
He left the paper at seven and, instead of returning home, drove to National Airport and caugh
t the eight o’clock shuttle to New York. There, he parked his rented car in front of his mother’s house. Lights were on in the living room and kitchen. He rang the bell, heard a commotion inside, then a voice, “Who is it?”
“It’s me, ma, Joe.”
“Joe?” The door opened a crack and there she stood, smaller and older, face wrinkled, black eyes looking for something inside him, waiting for him to say something.
“Hi, ma,” he said. He stepped inside and hugged her. She was stiff at first, then returned his embrace with warmth and strength.
She’d been cooking a variety of mezethes, fried Greek appetizers, for a party the next night at a neighbor’s house. He followed her into the kitchen, where her efforts were laid out on paper towels over every available surface. There were sautéed lamb meatballs, black-eyed peas in olive oil and lemon, fried feta-cheese cubes, and other dishes he remembered as a child. “Keftedes?” he asked, pointing to the meatballs.
She smiled and nodded. “Very good. You’re still a Greek. How’s Patty and the children?”
“Good. I was with them yesterday. She said they’d be coming up to see you soon. How come you never go down there?”
She shrugged and busied herself with the next batch of food.
“You’re welcome there anytime, ma. You know that. You could visit your grandchildren and see me, too.”
“You!” She laughed to soften the way she’d said it. “You’re a stranger. Married twice. My, my, what a way to live!”
“A couple of mistakes, that’s all. I learned my lesson and—”
“You’re seeing someone?”
“Nah, I’m too busy with the job.”
She turned from the stove and gave him the same look she used to when he was obviously fibbing as a child. He said sheepishly, “Well, I’ve been going out with a pretty nice girl. She’s a piano player. I mean, she’s a pianist, classical and all that.”
“She’s Greek?”
“No.”
His mother finished putting the next tray of food into the deep-fry unit that used to be in the diner when his father was alive. Then she wiped her hands on a black apron with a red and green rooster on it and said, “Come, Joe, let’s sit and talk. It’s been a long time.”
He looked around the living room. Not a thing out of place. On the false mantle above the false fireplace stood a series of framed photos of him and his sisters. The sofa and chairs were covered with plastic. Greek Orthodox religious artifacts were everywhere. His mother sat on the couch. He chose a chair. “You want some Metaxa?” she asked.
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