When he’d brought himself under control, Potamos asked again, “Want to work with me?”
“What do you mean?” Fitzgerald said, wiping his eyes and blowing his nose.
“On the book about Valerie’s murder, and Tony’s murder. Obviously they’re linked. I need somebody who really knew them, somebody to give me a real inside feel for the university, Bowen’s seminar, anything I don’t have access to.”
“Gee, I…” Fitzgerald got up and started pacing the small room, stepping over boxes and clothing on the floor, musical instruments and records. “I don’t understand,” he said. “You were working with Tony, and Anne Lewis told me she was doing something with you.”
“She did? She’s not.”
“She said she had lunch or something with you.”
“That’s true, but we never agreed to work together. I thought she and Steve McCarty had hooked up.”
“They did, but they had a falling out. At least that’s what Annie told me.”
“It doesn’t matter, Bob. Now that Tony’s dead, the only person I want to work with is you.”
“How come?”
“Because you’re the only one who seems to care that somebody killed Valerie. Not only that, but from what you said you even liked Tony, which wasn’t easy. Look, Bob, I can’t promise you a lot right now except some money and a credit in the book. I’ll be as generous as I can with both. Game?”
“I guess so. I have classes, though. I mean, I may not have enough time for you.”
“Whatever time you can give me is fine. The first thing I want to know is what Tony did the day he was killed—where he went, who he saw. He was supposed to meet me at my apartment Saturday night, but he never showed. Now I know why. The question is, what did he do right up until somebody hit him in the head?”
“I know where he was Saturday afternoon.”
“You do? Where was he?”
“Here.”
“You serious?”
“Yeah. He called me and said he wanted to talk to me. I thought it was about a seminar project, but when he got here he wanted to know about Walter Nebel.”
“Nebel? He’s still gone.”
“I know. Walter and I knew each other pretty well. Not that we were close buddies, but we enjoyed the same kind of music, the same groups. He’d always wanted to play an instrument, but he said his family didn’t have enough money. He used to hang around when my band was gigging or rehearsing.”
“Do you know where he is?”
Fitzgerald shook his head. “I heard from somebody that he’d gone down to West Virginia, but that was just a rumor. I think he has relatives down there around Charleston. Anyway, Tony told me he was working on a big story and that if he could find Walter he’d have the missing piece he needed.”
“Did he say what that piece was?”
“No.”
“Nebel dated Valerie.”
“I know. It didn’t last long, although it got pretty hot and heavy for a while. They went away together on weekends.”
“I know.”
“How do you know that?”
“I read… It doesn’t matter for now. Let’s get back to Tony. How long did he stay here?”
“About an hour. We listened to some music and… and got high.”
“Uh-huh. Where did he go after leaving here?”
“I’m not sure. He tried to call Sam Maruca from here, but there was no answer.”
“Maruca. Because he and Nebel are friends?”
“I suppose so.”
“Okay, Bob, how about checking further for me? Do you know Maruca?”
“Yup.”
“I met him, didn’t like him. What’s your opinion?”
“I don’t know, Sam’s okay, I guess, but he…”
“Let’s drop the I-never-met-a-man-I-didn’t-like philosophy and get honest.”
Fitzgerald smiled. “I don’t like Sam. It always amazed me that he and Walter were such good friends.” He snapped his fingers. “I was just thinking that it was more of a master/slave relationship between them. Whatever Sam said, Walter did. I remember seeing them at parties where Sam had Walter running all over the place for him. He’d say ‘Jump!’ and there was Walter asking ‘How high?’”
Potamos thought for a moment, then asked, “Any idea why Walter skipped?”
“Only that he was afraid he’d be a suspect in Valerie’s murder.”
“You think he could have killed her?”
“No.”
Another moment of thought. “What about Anne Lewis and Steve McCarty?”
“What about them?”
“McCarty dated Valerie and was unceremoniously dumped, at least according to what I’ve heard. Think he could have gotten mad enough to kill her?”
“No.”
“What about Anne?”
Fitzgerald laughed. “Annie? She wouldn’t kill anybody. How come you even ask?”
“I learned a long time ago, Bob, that it’s the questions you don’t ask that have the best answers.”
“No, she wouldn’t kill anybody.”
“But what if she hated Valerie as much as McCarty obviously did? Do you think McCarty might have done it at her behest?”
“Mr. Potamos, these people are my friends. We’ve been in the same classes, gone to parties together, are shooting for the same careers.”
“Which is an interesting point—and please call me Joe. There seems to be an incredible competitiveness within Bowen’s seminar.”
“We’re all scared, Joe.”
“Of what?”
“Of failing. There aren’t many jobs out there for J-school grads. I guess it was different when you came into the field.”
Potamos nodded. “Yeah, maybe it was, but I don’t think things have changed that much. Anyway, can you do some more checking on where Tony was the rest of Saturday?”
“I’ll try.”
“It looked to me like he was killed where they found him Sunday morning. Maybe he went there to meet somebody—Maruca, Nebel, whoever.”
Fitzgerald promised to call Joe that night at his apartment. Potamos’s final warning was for him to keep everything to himself and to share it only with his new partner.
“Joe,” Fitzgerald said as Potamos was on his way out.
“Yeah?”
“I have to think about this a little more.”
“About what, working with me? Why?”
“Because… because I’m not sure I want to get too involved, considering what’s happened to Valerie and Tony. Bowen told us we were not to speak with any members of the press except him. The police told us we couldn’t reveal anything we know except to them. I just don’t want to end up like Tony.”
“Who would? You think about it, Bob, and call me tonight. Either way it’s okay. I like you.”
“Thanks.”
| Chapter Twenty-seven |
Potamos woke Wednesday morning to the rattling of his bedroom windows. A storm had raced into Washington in the early hours, heavy rain whipped around by strong winds. It occurred to him that there wasn’t any compelling reason to get up. He was unemployed and had a hundred thousand dollars in the bank. Perfect day to roll over and sleep until noon.
But Jumper was standing at the bedroom door wagging her tail. She barked, telling him what her needs were. He got up, pulled on pants over his pajamas, slipped into a pair of sneakers, put on a raincoat and rainhat, and accommodated her.
Back inside, he got down to his pajamas again and made coffee. Then he decided to take a leisurely bath instead of his usual shower. He realized as he filled the tub with hot water that he hadn’t taken a bath in a year, maybe two; the last time when he was in a posh hotel in New York. Maybe he’d have more time now that he was about to indulge himself in a simpler life-style. The thought was appealing: hot baths and good books to read; prolonged walks with Jumper, who never got more than a cursory walk that terminated when business was completed; maybe time to learn something about music (tha
t would be necessary if he were married to Roseann); life off the fast lane, a normal life, whatever that represented.
He turned off the spigots and tentatively dabbed a toe into the water. He was halfway into the tub when the phone rang. He cursed, wiped the wet foot with a towel, then told himself that one of the perks of being “retired” was not having to answer the telephone. It kept ringing; he argued with himself over what to do. “Like Pavlov’s dog,” he mumbled as he crossed the living room naked and grabbed the phone. “Hello,” he said in a nasty voice.
“Joey, it’s mama.”
“Mama? Hey, I didn’t… It’s good to hear from you.” It dawned on him that she called only when something was wrong. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Joey, what have you done?”
“What do you mean?”
“The police were here this morning. They came at six o’clock, three of them, from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“The FBI? Why were they there?” He knew, and a vision of the envelope on the shelf in his room now in the hands of authorities sent all the coffee he’d consumed flying around his stomach.
“They searched the house. They had a warranty.”
“A warrant. Why did they do that?”
“They wouldn’t say. They went everywhere, pulled things down and opened things. I kept asking why they came to my house and they wouldn’t tell me, only one of them said… yes, he said exactly, ‘Your son has something we need.’ He called me ma’am, always called me ma’am. Joey, what have you done?”
“I didn’t do anything, ma, honest.”
“Did you bring something with you when you were here?”
“No, of course not. Did they find anything?”
“I don’t know. I asked, but they wouldn’t say. They made me sit in the kitchen with one of them while the other two searched the house.”
He wanted desperately to ask her to check his closet for the envelope, but restrained himself. Instead he said, “I’ll be up this afternoon, as fast as I can get there.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t, Joey.”
“Why shouldn’t I? You’re my mother. They had no right.”
“It sounds like you’re in terrible trouble.”
“Ma, what trouble could I be in? I’m a writer, that’s all.”
“I don’t know, I—”
“You stay there, ma. I’ll see you later. Don’t worry, it’s just a mistake.”
One of the things he had planned to do that day was stop by the condo Marshall Jenkins was building near the Soviet Embassy. Anxious as he was to get to New York and see whether Valerie Frolich’s diary was gone, he decided to get this out of the way first. Valerie had devoted a considerable number of pages to talking about the “scam” the condo represented. Unfortunately her writing was adolescent, everything wrapped in poetry, oblique sentences, foggy phrases that left him wondering what really was going on. That’s the way it was with her entries about the condo—references to her father profiting from it, speculation that the money to build it was coming from foreign governments, especially West Germany, funneled through Marshall Jenkins, whom Valerie obviously hated. Her father’s private life wasn’t any more palatable to her than his public one. Although she never came out and accused him of having an affair with Elsa Jenkins, it was evident that it was very much on her mind.
The storm was at its strongest as Potamos drove toward the condo. Roads were flooded, and a couple of downed power lines forced him to take detours. Eventually, he reached the construction site, parked in the shallowest of the puddles, and walked through an open gate in the chain link fence that surrounded the property. He saw a light inside a large trailer and knocked on the door. It was opened by a broad-shouldered man in dark blue work pants and shirt.
“Mind if I come in?” Potamos asked, water dripping from the rim of his rainhat, his shoes soaked.
“What can I do for you?” the man in the trailer asked.
“I’m wet,” Potamos said, grinning. “Just want to talk to you. I’m from the Post. George Bowen sent me.”
“Mr. Bowen?” There was a moment of decision making before he stepped back and allowed Potamos in. The trailer contained file cabinets, a drafting table, a typewriter and calculator, and a half-dozen folding chairs.
“Whew,” Potamos said, removing his hat. “Joe Potamos.” He held out his hand.
The man took it and said, “Jim Blake, site foreman. Mr. Bowen sent you?”
“Yeah. I work with him. He wants to do another piece about the condo—you know, sort of see if he can help it along.” Potamos shook his head. “I think he’s reached the end of his string with all the goddamn dogooders who keep getting in the way here.”
Blake nodded in agreement and said, “It don’t make sense to me that a handful of people can keep a building from getting built.”
“Me, either, Jim, especially with people like Mr. Jenkins and Senator Frolich and the others behind it.”
“That’s right,” Blake said. “What’s Mr. Bowen want you to do out here?”
“Just look around, get some angles for future columns he wants to write. I picked a hell of a day, huh?”
“No day to be taking a tour, that’s for sure.”
“I don’t need a guided tour. No sense in you getting soaked. I’ll just walk around for a half-hour. If I have questions, we can talk when I get back.”
“Well now, I’m not sure I can let you do that.”
Potamos was sorry he’d suggested it. He’d be lucky to gain access at all without wanting to be on his own. He was afraid Blake might decide to call someone to check him out, so he said, “If you don’t mind getting wet I’d appreciate your coming along, maybe go up top, whatever you think is interesting. Besides, I don’t need to fall into a hole or get hit in the head. You have an extra hard hat?”
“Sure.” Blake grabbed one from a pile of them on a file cabinet and handed it to Potamos. “That’s not much of a raincoat you’re wearing,” he said.
Potamos laughed. “I know. It strains the rain. I’m okay. I really appreciate this, and I know George does.”
“George? Oh, Mr. Bowen. Sure thing.” Blake put on a hard hat and a heavy yellow rubber slicker with a hood. He opened the door and they leaned forward against the wind and rain. Blake led them to the base of the condo and looked up. Large pieces of canvas flapped from the edges of the fifteenth floor, and the top of the crane was etched against the gray sky.
“You sure that crane’s secure in this wind?” Potamos asked.
Blake laughed. “Don’t worry. Take more than this to topple it. Come on.”
The path he chose was through mud. Potamos’s shoes sank deep into it; once, it came up to his right ankle and oozed down into his shoe. They entered the condo through a metal rear door. It was a relief to be out of the elements. Potamos kicked his shoes against a cement wall and shook the water from his hat. “Damn, that’s wild out there.”
Blake laughed and pushed a button for the large freight elevator that ran up through the gutted interior of the building. It creaked and groaned as it came down from the roof, arriving at ground level with a thud that sent dust and dirt flying. “You want to go up, right?” Blake asked.
“Yeah, right, Jim, sure do.” They got on the elevator and Blake pushed a button that sent the rig skyward. “How many stories you planning to go?” Potamos asked.
“Plans call for twenty-five,” Blake said.
“That’s what they’re fighting about, right?”
“Right. They wanted it stopped at twelve, but we snuck in a few floors before they got on to it.” He laughed. “Now they want us to take off the top three, but Mr. Jenkins says he’ll see hell freeze over before that happens.”
“I don’t blame him. We need a building like this.”
“That’s right, especially with the Russians sitting on their goddamn hill watching everything the whole city does.”
Potamos feigned surprise. “I never thought about the Russians
and the embassy. I meant we could use some nice places to live in the area.”
“I guess most people feel like that,” Blake said as the elevator lurched to a stop, then continued its slow, wrenching ascent. “Got the whole place almost sold already.”
“No kidding? Must be expensive.”
“People got money these days, though you can’t prove it by me.”
“How’d you sell ‘em if you don’t know how many floors there’ll be?”
“Oh, there’ll be the twenty-five, all right, Mr. Jenkins’ll see to that.”
They reached the top and Blake opened an accordion gate. Potamos put his hat on and stepped out onto the flat concrete slab that was the fifteenth floor. He waited for Blake to join him and they walked toward the far edge. When they reached it, Blake pointed down to the bleak, fortressed compound and said, “There they are, the Russians. Frankly, I’d just as soon not live so close to them, but lots a’people don’t feel the same.”
Potamos realized that if the condo were to have any intelligence value, it would need the final ten floors to give it an unencumbered view. Now, the interior of the compound could be seen only on a slant.
Potamos moved closer to the edge, turned, and said to Blake, “I guess the ones who get the top floors pay the most, huh?”
Blake shook his head. “The top two floors aren’t for sale.”
“How come?”
“I guess they’re taken already.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Potamos said, walking along the edge to get a different perspective of the embassy.
“You’d better get back here,” Blake said. “I don’t need a visitor falling off.”
A sudden gust of wind blew Blake’s words back into his face. Potamos looked around and said loudly, “What’d you say?” Another gust, this one even stronger, took Potamos’s hat from his head and sent it into the air toward the embassy like a Frisbee. Potamos grabbed for it, started to lose his balance, and quickly stepped back from the edge of the roof. “Damn,” he said. “Sorry about the hat.”
“Better the hat than you,” Blake said. “You seen enough?”
“Yeah, thanks, that’s it.”
Blake asked him for a card before Potamos left the site, and Potamos accommodated him. “Potamos,” Blake said, squinting at the card. “You write about those murders, don’t you?”
Murder in Georgetown Page 18
