Murder in Georgetown

by Margaret Truman

  “My sources tell me differently.”

  “You should develop better sources.”

  Bowen ran his fingertips over his thin gray moustache as Potamos got up and said, “You’re crazier than even I figured, Bowen. I want my job back.”

  “Your job is gone. Take the money and enjoy your life. If you don’t, your life will be anything but enjoyable.”

  “That’s a real threat.”

  “Yes, very real.”

  Potamos looked at the check on the desk, at Bowen, then at the check again. He picked it up and said, “What if I cash this and don’t accept the conditions?”

  “More trouble for you, that’s all.”

  “I don’t have any diary.”

  “If you cash the check, Joe, I expect to see the diary on my desk by tomorrow morning.”

  “Don’t hang around waiting for it.”

  Bowen smiled. “You do have your reasonable side, don’t you, Joe? I knew it was there.”

  Potamos jammed the check into his pocket and went to the door. Bowen said, “Remember, Joe, as of this moment you’ve lost interest in murder cases in the nation’s capital.”

  Potamos said nothing.

  “And tomorrow morning at this time you’ll be here with a diary in hand.”

  Potamos opened the door. His hand went to his pocket and for a moment he considered dropping the check on the floor. He didn’t.

  “Have a nice day, Joe,” Bowen said.

  Potamos closed the door, walked past Mrs. Carlisle, and left the building.

  | Chapter Twenty-five |

  “Joe, Roseann.”

  “Hi. I was going to call you, but… you told me not to until this was over.”

  “I know, but it’s not over for me, either.” She told him of Languth’s visit to the Watergate.

  “Son of a… He has no business hounding you. I’ll call him.”

  “All right, but I do want to talk to you.”

  “Sure. I want to talk to you, too. This whole thing is getting weirder all the time.”

  They agreed to meet for lunch at Martin’s at noon.

  Potamos had come directly home from Bowen’s office and had been sitting at the kitchen table when she called, the check in front of him. The thing he was having trouble dealing with was that a portion of his brain was telling him to cash it, turn over the diary, and move to California, or Mexico, maybe even Greece. Living was cheap in Greece. His mother would be happy. He wondered what the quarantine laws were for dogs coming into the country. He also wondered whether he could sweeten the deal. Bowen had said there would be more money coming. Maybe he could get it in a lump sum, turn the key on the condo, and take off, forget Washington and murders and the rest of it, except Blackburn. Maybe if he accepted Bowen’s terms and started living a simpler life, she’d marry him. She’d said that was what she wanted. Maybe. He wouldn’t push, just let it unravel naturally.

  She was late to lunch, which was okay by him. He’d finished his first drink and been served his second when she came through the door, spotted him in the booth, and joined him. He’d forgotten how beautiful she was; he felt warm enough to melt away. She kissed him lightly on the lips, slipped out of her raincoat, and sat across from him.

  “Good to see you,” he said.

  She gave him what he perceived as an it’s-inevitable look. He liked it. It made him feel secure.

  “Roseann, I’m really sorry about what’s happened. Languth is a clod. I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you again.”

  “How can you do that?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll do something. Did he hurt you?”

  “No, just a lot of upsetting talk. He said he wants the diary.”

  Potamos shook his head. “Everybody wants the diary.”

  “Maybe he’s the one who should have it, Joe.”

  “No, he’s the last one I’d give it to.”

  “He said he could arrest me for withholding evidence, even those few pages you left with me.”

  “He’s browbeating you, Roseann. Forget what he said.”

  “I can’t.” She grabbed his hands on the table. “Joe, I just don’t understand why you insist upon keeping it. Are you writing a story based on it?”

  Potamos said, “Not anymore. I’ve been fired.” He told of his meeting with Bowen and the check in his pocket. He put the check on the table between them. Her eyes widened. “A hundred thousand dollars? God, Joe, you’re rich!”

  “I figured I’d leave my options open.”

  “Your options? You mean you’re really considering cashing it and giving Bowen the diary?”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Huh? I thought you’d be all for it. Look, Roseann, I’ve been thinking a lot about us, about what we’ve said to each other.” She started to say something, but he hushed her with a finger to her lips. “Hear me out. I’ve been thinking about that simple life you say you love, just playing music and not getting bogged down in the sort of nonsense I’m always drowning in. I asked myself, ‘Joe, could you stand a simple life, really stand it?’ I wasn’t so sure at first, but this check from Bowen put things in perspective. What do I need Washington and journalism and all the rest of it for? The fact is, I don’t. Maybe with this money, and with you, I could get used to simplicity. You understand what I’m saying? I could get used to anything as long as I had you.”

  She sat back and bit her lip. Her brow was wrinkled and there was a cast to her eyes that Potamos couldn’t read, except to assume it stemmed from anger. “Roseann, let me go a little farther. When I met you I—”

  “No, Joe, stop talking. I don’t like what you’re saying.”

  “What am I saying, that I love you? Is that so bad?”

  “No, it’s not bad at all, but one of the things I love about you is that you have a complicated life because you’re willing to take chances, to live by some sort of code. That’s rare.”

  “You just threw me a big curve, Roseann, and I’m a fast-ball hitter. I thought—”

  “So did I, but you’ve helped me see things differently, too. I don’t want to play lounges anymore with drunks asking for ‘Melancholy Baby’ and trying to shove dollar bills down my dress. That’s like taking Bowen’s check, selling out, not being true to yourself. I love jazz, Joe. That’s what I want to play, because it pleases me, satisfies my soul. Understand what I’m saying? You never sell out and I always seem to.”

  Potamos got her point. “So you think I should tear up the check and keep on after the story.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m fired. I don’t have a forum anymore.”

  “Write the book that agent offered you.”

  He held Bowen’s check and rubbed his thumb and index finger over it. Then a smile came to his craggy face, made craggier by fatigue. “How’s this play for you?” he asked. “Maybe I cash the check, then do the story.”

  “That wouldn’t be ethical.”

  “Roseann, none of the players in this game is ethical.”

  “That doesn’t mean you have to be like them.”

  “Sometimes it helps, like cops who do a good job because they’re basically wise guys anyway. Yeah, I think I’ll do that—cash this sucker and go after everybody anyway.”

  “You do that, Joe, and you’ll end up in the canal.”

  “Everything’s a risk, huh? I’ll think about it. In the meantime, let’s talk about us. Will you marry me?”

  “And be the wife of a hunted man?”

  “We’ll assume false identities and go to Greece.”

  “Greece? They don’t have jazz in Greece.”

  “Sure, they must. Somewhere in Greece, maybe on one of the islands, there’s got to be a dynamite band playing Dixieland.”

  She made a face. “I don’t like Dixieland.”

  “Whatever. I’ll import a band, a hundred pieces. I’ll book ‘em through Elite Music.”

  The giggle turned into a laugh. He joined her. W
hen the spasm had subsided, he said, “I love you, Blackburn, and you will become Mrs. Joseph Potamos one day. By the way, my mother’s having a family reunion and you’re invited.”

  “Big deal.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m just invited so they’ll have a piano player.”

  “No, that’s not…” More laughter. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Playing at the Watergate.”

  “I’ll be by.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know… maybe we shouldn’t see each other until this is over.”

  “That’s what you said yesterday, and here we are. No, no more of that. Let’s go at it together. You play jazz and I’ll play my game. Deal?”

  She hesitated, then grabbed his outstretched hand and shook it. “It’s a deal, crazy man.”

  ***

  He went immediately from Martin’s to his bank and deposited Bowen’s check in his checking account. “How long to clear?” he asked the teller.

  “It’s a local bank. A day.”

  “Great.”

  He went home and called Pete Languth at MPD. “Pete, Joe Potamos. Lay off Roseann.”

  “Who?”

  “Roseann Blackburn. You searched her apartment and hassled her last night at the Watergate. Lay off.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are, Potamos? You’re nothing but a former reporter who couldn’t sell two lines of copy to any rag in Washington and you’re throwing orders at me? I ought to run you in right now.”

  “Do it, baby. I’m home enjoying my retirement.”

  “Don’t push me, Joe,” said Languth. He hung up.

  Potamos’s next call was to Liza Dawson, who wrote a popular twice-weekly gossip column in an area magazine. They’d been friendly for years and had done each other favors from time to time. “Liza,” he said, “I have a scoop for you.”

  “Delicious,” she said.

  He told her of his book deal, ending by saying, “It’ll be an exposé of what’s really behind the murder of Valerie Frolich and Tony Fiamma.”

  “What is behind it, Joe?”

  “Read my book, sweetie, and don’t fail me with this. I need the publicity.”

  “Thanks, Joe. Got anything else?”

  “Sure. The D.C. area’s hottest piano attraction is Roseann Blackburn. Keep your eye on her. She’s about to make major moves toward becoming one of the top jazz pianists in the world.”

  Dawson laughed. “In love again, Joe?”

  “You bet, with the hottest piano attraction—”

  “I know, I know. Thanks, Joe. Let’s have a drink soon.”

  “Sure, my treat. I’m about to be rich.”

  ***

  As Potamos hung up on Dawson, Peter Languth, still fuming from Potamos’s call, left MPD headquarters and went to a pay phone a few blocks away. He placed a handkerchief over the mouthpiece and dialed a number. Julia Amster answered in her studio.

  “We know what you and your boyfriend, Bowen, did, and you’ll pay.” His voice was distorted and raspy. He hung up, put the handkerchief in his pocket, and returned to his office.

  Fifteen minutes later he received a call from Julia Amster. “Sergeant Languth, I think we ought to talk,” she said.

  “Anytime at your convenience, Ms. Amster. Just name it.”

  | Chapter Twenty-six |

  By the time Potamos walked into the Press Club for lunch on Tuesday, the news of his firing was no longer news. A few friends offered their condolences, which he dismissed with a laugh and the line “Best thing ever happened to me. Time I became a former newspaperman.”

  The bar was relatively empty. Marvin Goldson was at his customary spot at the end, a buddha with drink and shrimp cocktail set up before him like an offering. Usually he was gregarious in his greetings, but this day he only glanced at Potamos, nodded, and continued eating. Potamos went over with his drink and sat next to him. “Mind, Marv?”

  “No, no, Joe, go ahead.”

  “You heard about Fiamma.”

  “Sure. Jesus, what kind of a nut is running around Georgetown?”

  “You ever figure out who broke into your shop?” Potamos asked.

  “Just guesses, Joe. It really doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “It doesn’t? How’d you come to that conclusion?”

  “Just because it doesn’t, Joe, that’s all. Case closed.” He carefully dipped a shrimp into the spicy red sauce and nibbled from its end. Potamos watched out of the corner of his eye and didn’t break the silence. It was Goldson who finally said, “Sorry to hear they canned you, Joe.”

  “Not me. I’ve been ready to pack it in for a long time.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “No buts, Marv. It gives me time to pursue other things that have been hanging fire.”

  “Like what?”

  “Free-lancing, maybe magazines, maybe a book. By the way, I have Tony’s notes that he based the article for you on. Interested in an old pro doing his version of the story?”

  “You?”

  “Yeah. I know you don’t pay top dollar, but I did hear you dropped the penny-a-word fee last year.”

  Goldson smiled for a second, then reassumed the glum expression that had been on his face since Potamos came in.

  “Interested, Marv?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? The kid was my protégé. It might be nice to do it as a tribute to him.”

  “Forget it, Joe. That story is past history. I want nothing to do with it.”

  Potamos hesitated before asking, “Somebody putting the pressure on you, Marv?”

  Goldson stopped a shrimp halfway to his mouth, slowly put it back on the plate, and turned to face Potamos. “No offense, Marv,” Potamos said, “but I just get the feeling the arm is being put on a lot of people around town and figured it might have reached you, too.”

  “You’re wrong, Joe. Don’t ever accuse me of selling out. You hear me?” His anger radiated from him like heat. Potamos was sorry he’d upset him, but at the same time hadn’t a doubt in the world that he was right. Somebody had gotten to Goldson. Who? Bowen? The police? Senator Frolich? Marshall Jenkins? Who else was there? Probably hundreds of people he hadn’t ever heard of.

  “Sorry, Marv. I wasn’t accusing you of anything, but you have to admit that—”

  “Joe, drop it. I’m sorry for the kid and his family, and I’m sorry you got the ax, but I’ve reached a point in my life where I want to keep things simple.”

  Potamos laughed and motioned to the bartender for a refill. “The simple life,” he said. “My girlfriend’s always talking about the simple life.”

  “I never cared about it when I was young, Joe, but I do now. No more tilting at windmills for me, no more causes.”

  “Okay,” Potamos said, “but will you do me a favor?”

  “Like what?”

  “If you come up with any ideas, fall into any information that bears on either murder, give me a call, huh? Strictly between us.”

  “Sure, Joe, sure.”

  He decided to skip lunch at the club, caught a hamburger and shake at a diner, and drove to Bob Fitzgerald’s apartment above the bar on M Street. He knew Fitzgerald was there the minute he pulled up; the sounds of the guitar poured out of the upstairs window and echoed off surrounding buildings. Potamos climbed the stairs and knocked. The music stopped and Fitzgerald opened the door.

  “Hi, Bob.”

  “Oh, hi, Mr. Potamos. Come in.”

  The room was as cluttered as it had been the last time. “Find a place to sit down,” Fitzgerald said, “if you can.” He managed a laugh and pushed sheet music off the end of his bed.

  Potamos chose to stand, went to the window, and looked down over M Street. “Well, what do you think?” he asked, not looking back at Fitzgerald.

  “I think… I think the whole world is sick.”

  Potamos turned and leaned against the window frame. “That’s pr
obably a fair assumption, Bob. What’s the talk around campus?”

  “Nobody can believe it. I guess Tony being murdered isn’t as shocking as Valerie, but it sets people on edge, you know, like there’s some kook looking to knock off everybody in Bowen’s seminar.”

  Potamos watched Fitzgerald try to decide where to perch. He was obviously very upset. Potamos said, “I want you to work with me.”

  Fitzgerald, who was wiping his guitar with a cloth, looked sharply at Potamos. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I’ve decided to do a book on these murders. I have a contract with a leading New York publisher. I’m through with the Post—too many restrictions, too much politics. I need somebody inside, somebody who knows the players without a scorecard. You understand?”

  “I don’t know, I…”

  “I need somebody who liked Valerie, and who knew Fiamma. Frankly, you’re the one who fits both criteria. The others I’ve talked to from the seminar weren’t fans of Valerie, and that’s being kind. I don’t know whether you’re aware that I got pretty close to Tony.”

  A smirk crossed Fitzgerald’s face. “How could I not know it? That’s all he bragged about, how he was working with you and had a job lined up at the Post because of it.”

  “He told you that?”

  “He told everybody that.”

  “Damn fool.”

  “He was proud. Tony had more pride than anybody I’ve ever met. I guess it’s because he came out of such a poor background. He really wanted to make it. I mean, we all want to make it, but with Tony it was an obsession. There was nothing else in life. I understood where he was coming from. He was honest, you know? Wasn’t walking around puffed up because his family had money and power, nothing like that. He was alone. Damn, was he alone! I liked him.”

  “You seem to like everyone.”

  Fitzgerald shook his head. “That’s not true. There’s lots of people I don’t like. Maybe that’s not the best way to put it. There’s people I don’t believe in, don’t want to spend time with, but I don’t put them down. They have their own problems and…” He started to cry. Potamos wanted to put his arm around him but didn’t, just stood and watched the young man with the ponytail and deliberately shabby clothes sit on the edge of his bed and sob.