“Yeah, that’d be nice. You still have the seven-star?”
“No,” she said as she went to where a bottle stood on a small table. “The five-star is good enough in this house now that your father is gone.” She carefully measured two tiny portions into etched stemmed glasses and gave him one.
“You’re having one?” he said.
“On special occasions, like having my only son home.”
He swallowed hard and held up his glass. “Good to see you, ma.”
“And I am glad to see you, Joey. So, tell me all about yourself, about this pianist who plays classical music and isn’t Greek.”
A half-hour later, after he’d capsulized his life for her, she asked why he was there.
He shrugged. “I don’t know, ma. I just wanted to touch base again with home. I’m glad I did.”
“You’re staying?”
“Just overnight, if it’s okay with you. I have to catch the first plane in the morning.”
“I’m glad you’re here. Your sisters ask about you all the time.”
“I think about them a lot, too.”
“Next month they’ll both be here.”
“Yeah? How come?”
“Because I asked them to come. I was going to ask you, too, Joey, to be here.”
“Something wrong? You okay?”
“I’m fine, but I would like to see my family together again.” She gave him the date, a weekend. “You’ll be here?”
“Count on me, ma. I’ll be here.”
“If you want to bring this Roseann with you, that will be fine.”
“Okay, I appreciate that.”
“You look tired.”
“I am—exhausted.”
“Go to bed. Go to your room.”
“My room. Sounds good.”
“I’ll fix you a big breakfast in the morning.”
“Ma, you don’t have to bother.”
“No bother, Joey. I want to.”
He kissed her goodnight and went to the room in which he’d grown up. He stripped down to his shorts, brushed his teeth with his finger, and pulled down the covers. Sitting on top of the pile of his clothes was the envelope containing Valerie Frolich’s diary. He opened the closet door and placed the envelope on a shelf, beneath a pile of his old sweaters and athletic uniforms, climbed into bed and pulled the covers up under his chin.
***
Roseann Blackburn had agreed to fill in for the week at the Terrace Lounge of the Watergate Hotel. The management had prepared a sign announcing her appearance, complete with an eight-by-ten glossy of her.
Now, at eleven o’clock Sunday night, as couples playing the mating game and important men in dark suits huddled in corners of the room, she spun out a succession of songs appropriate to the hour and situation: ballads with a bluesy feel, familiar themes from her classical repertoire. She was bored; too many men who’d had too much to drink had requested too many stupid songs. She was anxious to finish. That would be at one o’clock.
Her mind wandered as her fingers automatically found the right combination of notes. It had been an upsetting morning. The police had been so brusque, so uncaring, as they pulled the apartment apart. She’d stood to one side, a copy of the search warrant in her hands, trying not to cry, wanting to scream at them to get out, desperate to call Joe but knowing she couldn’t yet. When they opened the piano bench and started tossing sheet music onto the floor, her heart felt as though it would burst through her chest. Then one of them had held up the diary pages, looked at her with a crooked smile that said so many things, none of them flattering, and they’d left without even so much as a goodbye.
The anger of the morning flared up and she hit a loud, dissonant chord that caused heads to lift. She smiled and returned to her previous musical mood.
It was a little after midnight when she saw the big man come into the lounge and take a seat at the bar. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him for a few minutes. Then, after a furtive glance over her shoulder, it hit her. He was the one on the curb with Joe that morning, the cop. She’d seen him on the news, too. What was his name? No matter—she didn’t like the fact that he was there. It had to be because of what had happened.
She concluded her set with “Here’s That Rainy Day,” sat back on the bench, took a deep breath, got up, and walked toward the bar. If he was there to see her, she’d give him the chance. Nothing to be gained by trying to avoid him.
His first move heartened her. He nodded and applauded, the way many drunken men did as a way of establishing contact. “Thank you,” she said, passing him by.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Miss Blackburn?”
“Yes?”
“Got a minute? Buy you a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Just a couple of minutes of talk, that’s all. I’m not on the make. I’m a… I’m a music lover, and a cop.” He started to reach for his wallet, but she waved him off and sat down on the stool next to him.
“A cop? Why would you want to talk to me?”
He laughed. “Like I said, I’m a music lover, too. It’s possible to be a cop and still love music. Right?”
“Right, but I’m not in the mood to talk music, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Okay, whatever you say. In the mood to talk about murder?”
“Pardon?”
“Murder, a specialty of mine. And diaries of young women who get murdered.”
Blackburn looked to the bartender, who’d deliberately distanced himself from them. A couple hung on each other at the far end. The bartender had flipped a switch; Muzak drifted out of speakers. She turned to the cop and said, “Go ahead, talk about murder.”
“Drink?” he asked.
“Sure.”
Languth motioned for the bartender, told him to refill his glass of scotch, looked at Blackburn. “White wine,” she said.
“A lady’s drink,” Languth said.
“Men drink wine, too,” she said.
“Of course. I like Guinea red with spaghetti, lasagna.”
“You were discussing murder—and diaries.”
“Just trying to establish a friendly atmosphere, that’s all,” he said. “Those were interesting pages we found in your apartment this morning.”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t even know what your people took from me.”
He smirked. “I think you do, Miss Blackburn. Those were pages from Valerie Frolich’s diary that your boyfriend, Joe Potamos, gave you for safekeeping.”
“He’s not—”
“Not a boyfriend? Oh, right, this is a new age. Lover, huh? Relationship? What’a you call them these days?”
“I don’t know about any diary pages, Officer…”
“Languth, Peter Languth, Homicide.”
“I don’t know about those pages. Joe must have left them accidentally.”
“Yeah, no doubt. Where’s the rest of the pages?”
Blackburn tasted her wine and looked away from Languth. He said, “We’ll find them, you know, but it would be in your best interest if you helped us. If you don’t…”
She turned and looked him in the eye. “That sounds like a threat.”
“I never threaten anybody, Miss Blackburn. I just point out facts, reality, that’s all. I used to make threats when I was young, but no more. What was it Al Capone said, ‘Kindness and a gun will get you further than kindness alone’? He’s dead. I prefer the kind route—unless people don’t leave me options.”
“And my option is to tell you where a diary is that I don’t even know exists? Some option.”
“Could be worse. Those pages are vital evidence in a murder investigation. I could bring you in for withholding them from authorities.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’d rather not. Maybe I’ll haul in your lover, Potamos.”
“On what grounds? You found the pages in my apartment, not his.”
Languth started to laugh.
“I say something funny?”
“No, but it reminded me of a joke. There’s this old Jewish couple goes to a lawyer. The wife wants a divorce. The lawyer asks them if they have grounds. The wife says, ‘About an acre and a half.’ The lawyer asks if the wife has a grudge. She says, ‘We got a carport.’ The lawyer asks her if her husband beats her up. She says, ‘I’m up an hour earlier than him every morning.’ Finally the lawyer asks, ‘Why do you want a divorce?’ The wife says, ‘We have trouble communicating.’” Languth laughed loudly.
Blackburn smiled. “And you’re telling me I’m not communicating.”
“No, Miss Blackburn, I’m telling you that two college students have been murdered, and I’m telling you that I’m through being nice and playing games. That diary might hold the key to solving both murders and I intend to have it in my hands very soon. You help, I’m nice to you. Your boyfriend helps, I’m nice to him. The two of you don’t help, I start the Al Capone philosophy of life.”
“Thanks for the wine, Officer Languth. I have to get back.”
“Sure, anytime. By the way, where is Potamos?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“Break up over this? Must be a lot of tension.”
She walked away, leaving the wine on the bar, sat down at the piano, and began playing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” She was almost through the bridge when Languth came to the piano, placed her glass on it, and stuffed a dollar bill into a tips glass. “Next time play ‘Misty’ for me, Miss Blackburn. I like that song.”
| Chapter Twenty-four |
Jumper was hiding under the bed when Potamos arrived at his condo at nine Monday morning. “It’s okay,” he said without having to check the kitchen. “I’ll clean it up. Stop pouting.”
An hour later he walked into the city room of the Post, where Gil Gardello was in animated conversation with two reporters. Gardello spotted Potamos across the vast room and almost ran to him. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Around. I saw you yesterday.”
“And I called you all night. You’re supposed to call in.”
“I know. What’s the matter? Bowen die?”
“You should be so lucky. Come on.” He led Potamos to his office, closed the door, and said, “Joe, you really did it this time.”
“What’d I do?”
“I don’t know.”
Potamos’s expression said it all. Complete confusion.
“You’re fired.”
“Huh?”
“You’re fired, Joe. That’s all I know. They told me to fire you the minute I saw you.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know, but it must have been a beauty.”
Potamos sat down in a chair and started laughing. “This is idiotic. You on something, Gil?”
“Don’t play wise guy with me, Joe. I’m serious. I hate this. I like you, you’re good, but I guess you ruffled too many big feathers upstairs.”
“But how did I do that, Gil?”
Gardello shook his head, sat down behind his desk, and rubbed his eyes. “I’ve been dreading this ever since they told me. I figured the best way was to just hit you with it.”
“You did that, Gil. I’ll protest. I’m going upstairs.”
“I don’t blame you, but…”
“But you’d rather I didn’t?”
“I just don’t think it’ll do any good.” Gardello’s voice and face gave testimony to the genuineness of his feelings.
“Okay, Gil,” Potamos said, rising and going to the door. “I’ll let you know how it falls.”
“Yeah, Joe, do that. You know what I feel about you, huh?”
“Sure. Call me.”
Potamos grinned. Gardello shook his head and laughed. “I say that a lot, huh?”
“Yeah.”
He went to George Bowen’s office and was told Mr. Bowen was in his Mass. Ave. office. Potamos drove directly there, told the secretary, Mrs. Carlisle, that he wanted to see Bowen on an urgent matter. She told him Mr. Bowen was in conference. Potamos persisted. The secretary, with as deep and long a sigh as Potamos had ever heard, called Bowen on the intercom. Bowen’s words were a shock to both of them: “Oh, yes, please ask Mr. Potamos to wait a few minutes, and apologize for making him wait. I’ll see him shortly.”
“I heard,” Potamos said as she started to give him the message. He cocked his head and smiled at her. “Apology?”
She looked away and pretended to read something on a clean yellow legal pad.
Five minutes later Bowen came through his office door with two other men. They shook hands and the two others left. Bowen looked at Potamos and said pleasantly, “Hello, Joe, come in, come in. I’ve been expecting you.”
Potamos came right to the point after Bowen had closed the door behind them. “You got me fired,” he said, “and I won’t sit still for it.”
“Sit down, Joe. Relax. I think once I have a chance to explain it to you, you’ll feel differently.”
“I doubt it.”
“Let me try?”
A shrug and a desperate urge for a cigarette. Bowen lit up and sat on the edge of his desk. The smoke drifted in Potamos’s direction and stung his nose. It was a pleasant sensation.
“Joe,” Bowen said, “somebody’s looking out for you.”
“Yeah? How do you figure that?”
“You’ve been given a marvelous opportunity to make the best use of your abilities.”
Potamos blinked. “I don’t believe this garbage,” he said.
Bowen smiled. “Joe, you’re too good to be covering a regular cop beat for any newspaper. That’s why you’ve been asked to leave.”
“‘Asked to leave?’ I wasn’t asked to leave, I was canned, and it’s because of you.”
“Exactly.” Bowen stood and walked to the coffee service. “Coffee, Joe?”
“No.”
He poured himself a cup and went to the window. This time the blinds were drawn. He cocked his head and looked to the ceiling as though in deep thought, then said, “Joe, you’ve been working very hard on the Frolich story, and now we have the murder of this young man named Tony Fiamma. I’m afraid there are certain connecting links between them that are going to have to be—how shall I say it, Joe?—links that will have to be managed very carefully.”
“Wait a minute, that term managed is a bad one. Since when do you or anybody else in the press advocate managed news? That’s for politicians and the corporate flacks.”
“I didn’t suggest managing the news, Joe. I said these murders, because of their extremely sensitive nature, particularly Valerie Frolich’s, must be—I’ll phrase it more palatably for you—must be looked at with sensitivity and mature judgment.”
Potamos was becoming increasingly edgy. Bowen was playing with him, treating him like some oafish schoolboy who needed lessons in manners. He said, “What the hell do manners have to do with murder?”
“Manners? Oh, that’s the way you’re translating what I’ve said. All right, let it be manners. The fact is, Joe, that your manners have not been acceptable.”
“You don’t like them.”
“No, I don’t, but I’ve already told you that. I told you to stay away from the university and its students, but you didn’t listen to me.”
“You bet I didn’t. Those murders came out of the university, and as far as I’m concerned, manners be damned, that’s where the action is in this investigation.”
“Was, Joe. There is no more action for you.”
“Is this you talking, Bowen, or does it represent management at the paper, too?”
“It’s me, Joe, although my instincts on it are respected.”
“But why fire me? They took me off the Frolich story. Isn’t that enough?”
Bowen chuckled. “It should have been, would have been with most people, but not with Joe Potamos. No, indeed, Joe Potamos kept right on poking his nose where he shouldn’t, carrying his spear and his press card and looking for a scoop, looking for justice as he defines it.”<
br />
“Joe Potamos sounds pretty good to me,” Potamos said.
“Only to you, Joe, only to you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Potamos said. “I’m going to make a stink about this, Bowen.”
“Yes, I’m sure you would. Maybe this will change your mind.” He picked up an envelope, the only item on his desk, and held it out to Potamos, who kept his hands in his lap. “Go on, Joe, take it. I think you’ll find it interesting.”
Potamos reluctantly accepted the envelope and opened it. Inside was a check made out to him for $100,000. “What’s this for?” he asked.
“It’s your severance pay.”
“Yeah? How come you’re paying me severance pay. I don’t work for you.”
“You could have.”
“But I don’t.”
“What does it matter, Joe? You can take that money, move to a warm climate, and—”
The laugh exploded from Potamos. “Is that what this is all about? Pay me off to get me out of town?”
“Just a suggestion.”
“Forget it.” He tossed the check and envelope onto Bowen’s desk.
Bowen’s pleasant manner changed. He said sternly, “You’d better take it, Joe, and you’d better accept the conditions attached to it. You’ve been fired for insubordination. You’ll never work again in Washington. Take my word for it.”
Potamos reached over and looked at the check again. In the bottom left-hand corner was the word Retainer. “In what way can this be viewed as a retainer?”
“I’m retaining you as a consultant. There’ll be more, paid quarterly, as long as you do as you’re told. You’ll leave Washington, forget about the Frolich and Fiamma murders, and, of course, hand over to me any materials you might have in your possession that bear upon these cases, including Miss Frolich’s diary.”
Potamos shrugged and again returned the check to the desk. “Sorry, Bowen, but these negotiations can’t go forward. I don’t have what you’re buying.”
“The diary?”
“Exactly.”
Murder in Georgetown Page 16
