Murder in Georgetown

by Margaret Truman

  Languth’s expression indicated genuine ignorance of the event.

  “You didn’t arrange it?” Potamos said.

  “Nope. What’d they find?”

  “I don’t know. There was nothing to find except a dozen crosses and lots of olive oil.”

  Languth pulled his bulky body up straight and propped his elbows on the desk. “The diary, Joe? Is that what they were after?”

  Potamos shook his head and frowned. “You really didn’t know about the bureau hitting my mother’s place, did you?”

  “I already told you that.”

  “Then who?”

  Languth shook his head. “No idea.” The coffee arrived. Languth tasted his, smacked his lips, and said, “It’s getting better all the time.”

  “Pete,” Potamos said, breathing in the steam from his cup, “I’m worried about Roseann. Somebody’s pulling strings and getting people killed. I think whoever arranged for the FBI is the same person responsible for the murders, and for Roseann not coming home last night.”

  “Yeah? Who might that be?”

  “You know more than me. Toss me a name.”

  “George Alfred Bowen.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of him.”

  “Well, I was. I always am. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m ready to make a move on him and maybe you can help.”

  “How?”

  “The diary. I read those pages we found in your girlfriend’s apartment. I get from them that Valerie Frolich and Bowen had quite a thing going.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I read them, too, and you can take what you want from them, either an affair or a college girl’s sexual fantasies.”

  “Come on.”

  “I mean it, Pete. She never said she slept with him.”

  “What about the rest of the diary?”

  “What about it?”

  “What more does she have to say about Bowen?”

  “Pete, I don’t know because I don’t have it.”

  Languth curled his lip. “You did have it, Joe, or your girlfriend did. Was it at your mother’s house?”

  Potamos sipped his coffee and said nothing.

  “All right, play it your way, but I agree with you—I think your friend Roseann is in big trouble and so are you. It doesn’t matter whether you have the diary or not. The important thing is that you both read it. If it’s loaded with damaging stuff about the high and mighty, having you two walking around with your heads full of what it said might be construed as unhealthy for the parties involved.”

  That thought had occupied Potamos all morning.

  Languth hunched forward again. “Look, Joe, I don’t need another murder on my hands, not with a lousy year to retirement. I got it all figured—where I’m going, what I’m going to do. This Frolich case, and now Fiamma, has sent my ulcers into war with my gut. I don’t sleep nights, I eat like a pig, and my local liquor store is hangin’ a plaque in my honor. I don’t like these kinds of cases where the juicers, the big shots, are involved. Give me the drug pushers and the mob hits anytime. I want this over with. You must feel the same way, huh?”

  “It doesn’t matter to me anymore. They fired me.”

  “I heard.”

  “You and the rest of the world. The only thing I care about now is Roseann Blackburn. I just want to find her, get her back, and take off.”

  “With her?”

  “Of course.”

  “What’s this, number four?”

  “Three.”

  “Guts, Joe, you’ve got guts. Once was enough for me.”

  Potamos looked at the wedding band on Languth’s finger. “I figured you were still married, the ring and all.”

  “It was finished four years ago. I just never took it off.”

  Potamos was aware of the friendly nature of the conversation they’d entered into—two buddies comparing love lives over a beer. He said, “What do you want from me, Pete? I don’t have the diary. The FBI does.”

  “From your mother’s house.”

  “Leave her out of this. It doesn’t matter. What do you want, for me to recite what’s in it for you?”

  “Just the Bowen stuff for now.”

  “You’ve seen it all, at least most of it. There was more stuff about making it with him, but nothing tangible.”

  “I don’t need any more than I’ve got.”

  Potamos cocked his head. “Be serious. What’s in that diary isn’t going to give you a case against Bowen.” As he said it, a happy fantasy flashed through his mind—Bowen being arrested, Bowen in court, the guilty verdict, the headlines, himself standing outside the courtroom laughing as Bowen was led away in cuffs.

  “I have more than the diary, Joe.”

  “Yeah?” Was Languth about to tell him what it was?

  “I’ve got his girlfriend, Julia Amster.”

  “What do you mean, you’ve ‘got’ her?”

  “She’s confirmed that Bowen had an affair with Valerie Frolich, and she’s willing to testify to it.”

  Potamos had to smile. “Having an affair and committing murder don’t necessarily go hand in hand.”

  “Lots of times they do.”

  “How’d you get her to tell you this?”

  It was Languth’s turn to smile. “An old technique, Joe. Get the tension going between a couple and one of them ends up wanting out of it. Anyway, it doesn’t matter how. What counts is that I’ve got her. She gave me a statement.”

  Potamos checked his watch and thought about Roseann. “Can I use your phone?” he asked. Languth nodded. Potamos dialed her number. Nothing. He said to Languth, “What do you want me to do? And if I do it, will you help me find Roseann?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, lay it on me.”

  “Not here. Tonight, someplace outside. You know a joint in Alexandria called Rafters?”

  “Yeah, lots of singles action.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. Meet me there at eight.”

  “Pete, I have other things on my mind. Why can’t we just go get a cup of coffee and talk?”

  “Too busy.” He held up his beefy hands. “Hey, Joe, forget about it. I’ll nail Bowen with or without you. As for your girlfriend—”

  “All right, Pete, eight o’clock at Rafters.”

  “Right. Thanks for stopping by. And look out for yourself. You’ve got to be a hot item with Bowen and his crowd.”

  ***

  The people he made contact with at the Watergate had nothing to offer about Blackburn’s whereabouts. She had played, as usual, and left on time. The bartender remembered Potamos’s having been in earlier in the evening, and he mentioned the man with whom she’d talked during her break and just before she left.

  “The guy with the bush jacket and gray Afro?”

  “Yes. You talked to him, too.”

  “She leave with him?”

  “No, unless she met him outside. She went through that door, and he left through the main entrance.”

  “He say anything to you?” Potamos asked. “You get his name? He use a credit card?”

  “Nope. Cash, small talk.”

  “You ever see him before?”

  The bartender shook his head.

  The frustration welled up in Potamos. “Thanks,” he said. “If she calls, let me know, huh?” He handed the bartender his card with his home phone on it.

  “Reporter, huh?”

  “Yeah, but this is no story. I’m worried about her. We’re supposed to get married.”

  He left carrying the distinct feeling that the bartender viewed him as a jerk, a naive guy in love with a beautiful female piano player—and everyone knows what they’re like; probably made a date with the handsome guy at the bar who liked the way she played and looked and…

  He called her apartment every five minutes throughout the afternoon, to no avail. By four, the worst possible scenarios had surfaced and he found himself pacing his rooms like a caged jungle animal, ready to kill anyone and everyone responsib
le for her disappearance.

  He forced himself to momentarily put aside his grim thoughts and call Anne Lewis’s house. A man answered, said she wasn’t home, asked who was calling. “A friend,” Potamos said. “Thanks, I’ll call again.” He hung up and realized he’d heard that male voice before. Who was it? He searched his recent experience and came up with Steve McCarty, the former law student who was now a journalism student in Bowen’s seminar. Why was he answering Anne Lewis’s phone? He considered going there but ruled it out, at least for now. He had his date at eight with Languth. And Blackburn was supposed to start playing at eight in the Terrace Lounge. His worst fear was that he’d swing by there and she’d be sitting at the piano, as pretty as ever. She’d say to him, “Oh, Joe, I’m sorry but something came up, a wonderful chance to play with the biggest names, and I just couldn’t resist. I would have called, but there was only this broken pay phone, and the other phone where we were playing was constantly busy and…”

  He parked in front of the Watergate, slipped the doorman a buck, and ran inside. He could hear the piano before he ever reached the lounge. It stopped him in his tracks. “Bye-Bye, Blackbird,” one of his favorites. On the piano in her apartment she’d shown him how she substituted chords for the simple ones that usually accompanied the melody—what had she called them, extensions and inversions? He slowly walked to the entrance to the lounge, afraid to see her there, more afraid of what he might say or do. He stepped inside. A black male piano player in a tuxedo flashed him a big grin and continued playing.

  Potamos went to the piano, put a dollar bill in the tip glass, looked around the lounge, and wished he could speed up the metronome in the pianist’s head.

  The song ended. “Thanks,” the pianist said, indicating the glass.

  “Yeah, fine. Where’s the girl who’s been playing here all week?”

  “Roseann? I don’t know. Took a vacation or something. I’m just filling in.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Who told me what, to play here? My agent.”

  “Oh, right, of course. You didn’t talk to Roseann.”

  “No. I got a call this morning and here I am. Actually, I can’t do the week, only tonight, but my agent got somebody to cover tomorrow.”

  “Your agent Elite Music?”

  “For this gig, yeah.” He laughed. “Got a request?”

  “No, anything you like. I have to run. Who called Elite to tell them Roseann wasn’t coming in?”

  The pianist shrugged. “I guess she did,” he said, launching into another song.

  ***

  He arrived at Rafters forty-five minutes late and hoped Languth had stayed around. He had. He was at the long, handsome bar, hands clasped around a glass. The place was busy; a sign out front had touted Thursday as “Musical Trivia Night” with “Prizes for All.”

  He came up to Languth and said, “Sorry I’m late. I stopped to see if Roseann was at the Watergate. She wasn’t.”

  Languth slowly turned and took him in with bloodshot, watery eyes. “How you doin?” he said.

  He was sloshed, which didn’t please Potamos. Then again, he reasoned, maybe it was better. Drunks talked a lot. Maybe he’d learn more than if Languth were stone-cold sober. He sat down next to him and ordered scotch with a splash.

  “She wasn’t there, huh? Where do you figure she is?”

  “I don’t know. You said you’d put out an APB. You’ll do that tonight?”

  “First thing in the morning, Joe. First things first. Here.” He handed Potamos an envelope.

  His first thought was that he was receiving another check. He opened it and took out a piece of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven white paper with typing on it. “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Read it, then we’ll talk.” Languth told the bartender to fill him up again.

  The bar was dimly lit and Potamos had to position himself to catch the light from a wall lamp behind him. There was a date in the upper right-hand corner, the previous Saturday.

  Dear Joe,

  I thought because we are working together that I should let you know what I am doing. I just got a call from Professor Bowen who wants to meet me tonight down near the campus. I found out that he met Valerie the night she was murdered and I guess that’s why he wants to talk to me. I don’t have time to bring this to you but I wanted it written down in case something happens. I’ll call you tomorrow.

  Tony

  Potamos dropped the paper on the bar and stared at Languth.

  “How about that?” Languth said, his speech slurred.

  “How about that, Pete?” Potamos said disgustedly. “Where’d you get it?”

  “It was dropped off at my office. Nice, huh? Puts Mr. Bowen at the scene both times.”

  “Pete, you don’t think this is legit.”

  “Legit? Come on, Joe, why wouldn’t it be?”

  Potamos shook his head. “In the first place, it isn’t signed. In the second place, Fiamma would never have written it like this. He was pretty good, from what I saw—a lot better than this thing.”

  Languth looked straight ahead and finished his drink, plunked the glass down on the bar, and ordered another.

  Potamos leaned close to him. “Level with me, Pete. Did you write this?”

  “It was written on Fiamma’s typewriter. I already had the test run.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question. If you have the typewriter to test, you have it to use. Jesus, Pete, this is crazy. Why the hell are you showing it to me?”

  Languth fixed Potamos with his large, watery blue eyes. “Because we can get that slime Bowen, Joe. You and me can settle scores with him.”

  “Pete, I—”

  “I want you to come out with this note. You can write a story about it, anything you want, but just say that you found this in stuff Fiamma gave you.”

  “Like I said, Pete, this is crazy. You’re crazy. What score do you have to settle with Bowen?”

  Languth started to answer, stopped to yell at the bartender for his refill, turned again to Potamos, and said, “What’a you say, Joe?”

  “No, and my advice to you is forget it. Of everybody in this town, I probably dislike Bowen the most, but I’d never frame him in a murder.”

  “It’s not a frame, Joe. The kid wrote the note. We even got a print off the page.”

  “Great, then announce you have it and arrest Bowen.”

  “I can do that, but having it come from you would be better—no questions, you know?”

  “Pete, what’d Bowen do to you?”

  “He’s a type, Joe. They use their jobs to get close to young girls in their classes and take advantage of them.”

  “That’s all that’s behind this? That you don’t like college professors?” He couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. He watched Languth in his raincoat hunched over his drink, his face contorted from some inner anger, his breath coming in short, distinct, labored bursts. Potamos sensed that any further probing would result in a combative response, so he dropped the subject, finished his drink, and prepared to go, Fiamma’s alleged note still on the bar. He suddenly realized that now his prints were on it. He said, “Pete, want me to take this with me?”

  Languth turned slowly. “You’ll do it?”

  “No, and I don’t think you should, either. Why don’t I just tear it up and—”

  Languth grabbed the paper from Potamos’s hands, held it tightly, moved it up and down as though it were a club he intended to use. “You listen to me, Joe, and you listen good. You’ve got kids, right? What, two of them? They’re both alive, right? You get to see them once in a while, talk to them, see them grow up.”

  “That’s right.”

  The anger seemed to have flowed out of Languth. His big body sagged and his voice had an edge of sorrow to it. “I had a kid, Joe. Her name was Jane. My only kid, a good girl. My wife and I got along pretty good until Jane went off to college out in Michigan, Michigan State. We were really proud she got in, even got a schol
arship. She was gonna be a teacher. She loved little kids, baby-sat for everybody.”

  It began to come back to Potamos now, a rumor three or four years ago that Languth had lost a kid. He hadn’t seen Languth for months after hearing the rumor, and when they did meet up again, Potamos had either forgotten about it or declined to ask. Languth had never mentioned it, and it sort of faded away like most rumors.

  “She was out there a couple of months, Joe, that’s all, and then we get these letters that we couldn’t understand. She got involved with some goddamn cult or something, and one of her teachers was in it, too, a crazy older guy who was into drugs. He got ahold of…” His voice started to crack and he fought valiantly not to break down. “He got ahold of her and she…” He blinked and inhaled, ran his hand over his eyes. “Goddamn,” he said, turning away from Potamos and taking a large swig of his drink.

  Potamos looked away to give him some dignity. Had his daughter been killed by the professor he was talking about? He put his money on the bar and said, “You okay to drive, Pete? Want me to take you home?”

  “No. I’m staying awhile.”

  “Can I suggest something?”

  Languth didn’t reply.

  Potamos said, “Let me have the note. I’ll keep it safe until tomorrow, until you’ve had time to think it over, really think it over. Maybe we can get together and talk some more, kick it around. How about dinner tomorrow night?” He’d forgotten for the last fifteen minutes about Roseann. When she took center stage again, he almost withdrew the offer. If he found her, they’d be together. The hell with Languth and his craziness.

  “All right,” Languth said, handing him the note.

  “Yeah, good, Pete. I have to go. I’m still looking for Roseann.”

  “You think about it.”

  “The note?”

  “Yeah. You’ve got plenty of reason to get him, too, and don’t forget it.”

  “I won’t. Will you put out an APB on Roseann if she doesn’t show tonight?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll call you in the morning.”

  Languth drew a deep breath, slowly let it out, and wrapped his hands around his glass. Potamos touched him on the shoulder, said goodnight, and headed back to the city.