| Chapter Twenty-nine |
Potamos stopped at Bob Fitzgerald’s apartment on the way home. He wasn’t there. Potamos tacked a note on his door asking him to call at any hour.
His next stop was the Watergate, where Blackburn’s substitute was still playing. He resisted having a drink and asking more questions; a waste of time.
He popped into his favorite newsstand on M Street to buy the papers and some magazines to pass the time at home. The new issue of the magazine Liza Dawson wrote for was prominently displayed. He thumbed through it until he found her column. There it was, the second lead, that he was writing a book on the Frolich murder. He had to smile; she’d tossed in a line just below it about Roseann Blackburn, a Washington pianist “poised at the threshold of jazz stardom.” His smile faded as he thought of her. He paid and quickly went home, called her number. He gasped. Instead of a series of unanswered rings, there was the incessant drill in his ear of a busy signal. “Thank God,” he said. He tried it again. It rang. No one answered. He tried again and again with the same result. You misdialed the first time, he told himself. Damn it, I thought…
The phone rang. It was Bob Fitzgerald. “I just got home and saw your note,” he said.
“Yeah, good. Listen, Bob, how about getting over to Anne Lewis’s house and seeing what the story is with Nebel?”
“You said you were going to call.”
“I did call, but she wasn’t there. I think Steve McCarty answered. Anyway, it occurs to me that you’d get a lot better reception than me. Make up an excuse, do whatever, but get in there, talk to Anne. Don’t tell them when you call that you saw Nebel.”
“I’ll try but…”
“There’s not much time, Bob.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just take my word for it. Things are happening and I’m afraid we’ll end up with somebody else dead.”
“Who?”
“I’ll fill you in when I see you. Get in touch with them and call me back.”
“Hey, Joe, am I in danger?”
“You? Why would you be?”
“Because I’m in Bowen’s seminar.”
“I don’t think so, but look over your shoulder. Talk to you later.”
He sat in his recliner and tried to come up with some course of action, knew he couldn’t just sit there all night and do nothing. He did the only thing available to him at the moment—phoned Blackburn’s apartment every five minutes. He kept that up until midnight, then walked Jumper, took a shower to clear his head, put on his pajamas and a robe, and made a pot of coffee. He sat at the kitchen table waiting for it to brew. On the table in front of him was the note Languth had given him. He stared at it. It might work. He thought of Languth drunk in the bar at Rafters and couldn’t contain a small smile. Languth actually might have done something worthwhile.
Potamos had George Bowen’s unlisted home number but had never used it. He checked the kitchen clock: 12:30. Bowen might not be home, or, if he were, he might be asleep. Wait until morning? Impossible.
He dug out the number from a dresser drawer, returned to the kitchen, and poised to dial. He wasn’t as filled with resolve as he had been ten minutes earlier. “The hell with it,” he said as his finger found the first button on the phone. “What’s to lose?”
His heart pounded as he heard the first ring on Bowen’s end. It rang five more times before a woman answered.
“Is Mr. Bowen there?” Potamos asked.
“Yes, he is. Who is calling?” Had to be a maid.
He said, “Tell him it’s… tell him it’s Joe Potamos and it’s very, very important.”
“All right.”
Potamos strained to hear what was in the background. Voices, laughter, music. A party. The bizarre thought hit him that whoever was playing the piano sounded like Blackburn, and that maybe Bowen had kidnapped her to perform. He rubbed his eyes and warned himself to stay rational.
Bowen came on the line after a long delay. “What do you want?” he asked angrily. “This is my home.”
Potamos knew he’d probably have only a minute or less to get his message across, and had rehearsed it in his mind ever since coming up with the notion of calling Bowen. He said quickly, “One, your check bounced. Two, I have a piece of paper, and so do the police, that you’re going to be damned unhappy over.”
“What paper?”
“Paper that means big trouble for you, George, maybe enough to see you go to jail for the rest of your life.”
Bowen laughed. “You’re mad. Don’t ever call me here again.”
“I’ll be at your office in the morning with a copy of the paper. And have a new check ready, plus what the bank stuck me for.”
Bowen slammed down the phone, which made Potamos feel good. There was something satisfying in having upset America’s leading columnist.
He weighed his next move. Chances were that since Julia Amster had come forward with a statement to the MPD, she wouldn’t be attending Bowen’s party. Potamos paused to consider whether Languth had been honest about Amster’s action. He bought it, found her number, and dialed. Amster answered. She sounded breathless, as though she were hoping it was someone else, probably Bowen.
“Ms. Amster, I’m Joe Potamos of the Washington Post. Sorry to bother you this late, but it’s important.”
Her anticipatory tone suddenly changed to defensiveness. “What do you want with me?”
“I want to talk to you about George Bowen and the statement you gave MPD.”
“How do you know about that? That was confidential. I’ve never—”
“Look, Ms. Amster, I’m not necessarily looking to write about it, but I thought you’d want to know that there have been other developments in the Frolich murder that involve Mr. Bowen.”
“Other developments?”
“Yeah, and I’d like your reaction to them.”
“Please, I have nothing to say in this matter. You say your name is Potamos. You’re the one George has…”
“Has what, bad-mouthed?” He laughed, said, “Listen to this, Ms. Amster. This is a note written to me by Tony Fiamma the night he was murdered.” He started to read.
“I don’t think this is any concern of mine,” she said.
Potamos kept reading, slowly and deliberately, pronouncing each word with care. Amster said nothing. When he was finished, she was silent for a moment, then said, “How do I know that’s a legitimate note?”
“Call Sergeant Languth at MPD. It was written on Fiamma’s typewriter, has his fingerprints all over it, and… and his signature checks out. Enough?”
Now her voice had lost its luster. She asked softly, “Why read this to me? What do you expect me to do?”
“Talk to me, that’s all, any time, any place. You want me to come over now, I’ll be there.”
“No, please don’t. I need to think about what you’ve said. I could call you tomorrow.”
“Sure, if you want. Here’s my number. I’ll be here until eleven. Then I have a couple of appointments to keep.”
“Eleven. Yes, I’ll call you by eleven. Thank you, Mr. Potamos.”
“Thank you, Ms. Amster. Have a good night.”
He spent the rest of the night and early-morning hours pacing, talking to himself, alternating between despair and a rage that physically shook him. He dozed off a couple of times in the chair and was asleep when the phone rang at four. He had to shake himself into awareness before picking it up. It was George Bowen, who said sharply, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Potamos?”
“Protecting my interests and trying to find the woman I love.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Lots, Bowen. You and your cronies are behind what’s happened to her, and it’s all bound up in Valerie Frolich and Tony Fiamma’s deaths. I couldn’t prove it before, but now I can, at least where Fiamma is concerned. Your girlfriend, Amster, call you?”
“How dare you slander me to my friends?” His voice had the tensility of carbon steel
.
“Slander, hell,” Potamos snapped back. “Want me to read the note I read your girlfriend?”
“That trash? It’s a lie. I never arranged a meeting with Fiamma, nor did I see Valerie Frolich the night she died, except on the barge.”
Potamos was feeling better all the time. The fact that Bowen was bothering to deny a note he hadn’t even seen was positive.
“I told you I’d be by for a check, Bowen, and to show you this note. How about eleven? I’ve been up all night.”
“You’re a dead man, Potamos.”
“Huh? You’re threatening me?”
“Just listen to me, you demented slob. I’ll have you buried ten feet deep in a grave you dug yourself. Don’t test me, Potamos. Don’t make my day.”
It was Potamos’s turn to pull back a little. He’d been certain that Bowen would agree to see him. Now there was only the threat that sent a chill through him. He glanced at the note on the table and wondered whether it might be legitimate. Maybe he’d dismissed Languth too fast. Languth hadn’t flatly declared he’d written the note, just asked Potamos to help give it credibility. What if… what if Bowen was a madman who now had all the reason in the world to get rid of Roseann and him?
Potamos reacted from instinct, ignoring those thoughts. He said in a voice as hard as Bowen’s, “The way I see it, Bowen, you’re the one who’s dug a grave. I’m going to the MPD with this. They think you did it anyway, and this is the spade that digs the grave deep enough, you pompous creep.”
Bowen didn’t respond, but Potamos could hear him breathing. Finally, he said, “I won’t play games with you any longer, Potamos. Come to my office at eleven.”
It took Potamos by surprise. All he could say was “I’ll be there.”
“And bring this so-called note with you.”
“I’ll have a copy.”
The king-of-the-mountain conversation was over. Potamos poured himself a drink and took a half-hour to calm down. When he had, he found a pen, sat in the kitchen, and carefully signed the note: Tony. Satisfied, he tried Blackburn one more time and went to bed, setting his alarm for ten. He fell asleep not having any idea whether what he was doing would do anybody any good. But at least he’d done something. Any action was better than no action.
| Chapter Thirty |
Mrs. Carlisle was not at her desk, and the door to Bowen’s office was closed. Potamos patted his jacket pocket containing the photocopy of Fiamma’s note. Then he knocked. He heard a man’s voice, then Bowen opened the door and stepped aside for Potamos to enter.
Potamos looked across the room to where another man stood. “Go on, sit down,” Bowen said gruffly.
Potamos stood behind one of the visitors’ chairs and placed his hands on it. The man by the window walked to the coffee service. Now Potamos could see his face and figure—tall, slim, with a carefully sculptured mass of gray hair and wearing a bush jacket and turtleneck. The one from the lounge at the Watergate. “What are you doing here?” Potamos asked.
Geof Krindler ignored him and opened a small can of orange juice that rested on ice in a silver bucket. He drank slowly from it as Potamos watched.
“You were at the bar,” Potamos said, taking a step toward Krindler. “Do you know where Roseann is?”
“Sit down,” Bowen said, taking his seat behind the desk and propping his feet on the edge.
“What’s going on here?” Potamos asked. “What is this, some kind of a setup, a joke?”
Krindler went to the desk, placed a hand on a professional-quality Marantz cassette recorder, and said in a voice Potamos remembered so well from the bar, “We have a tape we’d like you to hear, Mr. Potamos. You will find it interesting. I’ll play it when you sit down.”
“A tape of what?”
Krindler glared at Potamos like a stern headmaster profoundly disappointed in a student. Bowen said, “Grow up, Joe, get smart and sit down. The games are over, for all of us. You’ve acted like an irrational jackass and it’s time you stopped, realized that there are issues of far greater importance than one hack writer’s need for fulfillment. Sit.”
Potamos sat. Krindler started the tape, and a few seconds later Blackburn’s voice came from the speaker:
“Joe, it’s Roseann. Please don’t worry, I’m okay. Nobody hurt me and they won’t if you listen to what they have to say and do what they want. I’m sorry I put you in this position, but I couldn’t help it. I’m fine, Joe. I’ll see you soon.” There was a hint of her voice cracking at the end, but Krindler abruptly stopped the tape.
Potamos leaned forward and said to Bowen, “I always knew you weren’t wrapped too tight, Bowen, but kidnapping?”
Bowen smiled as Krindler went to the window and leaned against the heating and air-conditioning duct, again becoming a silhouette to Potamos. Bowen said with a sigh, “It constantly amazes me how forgiving and understanding the American spirit is. Frankly, Joe, if I were holding the reins, I’d simply have you shot and hanged in Lafayette Park for all to see.”
“Yeah, I don’t doubt that. You kill a couple of college kids, what’s another couple of bodies? Here, look.” He angrily pulled the copy of Fiamma’s note from his jacket and flung it at Bowen. Bowen picked it up from his lap, unfolded it, and casually perused it. Then he dropped it on the desk and sighed again, louder this time.
“Hey, you, what the hell is your name?” Potamos asked Krindler. Krindler didn’t reply. Potamos said, “If she’s hurt—I mean one hair, one inch of skin—I’ll—”
“You’ll what, Joe, be angry?” Bowen said. He turned to Krindler and said, “I have very little patience for this. Tell him what he needs to know and get him out of here. He turns my stomach.”
Krindler took a chair next to Potamos. He crossed his legs, played with the medal dangling on his chest, and chewed on his lip.
“You kidnapped her?” Potamos asked, feeling increasingly helpless.
“She’s been detained for national security purposes,” Krindler said in a monotone. “Her well-being, yours, and the well-being of millions of citizens depend upon your cooperation.”
Potamos laughed because he didn’t know what else to do. He said, “Who wrote this script, Paddy Chayefsky?”
“Please drop the wise-guy act,” Bowen said. “Go ahead, Geof.”
“Geof? Geof what?” Potamos asked.
Krindler ignored the question and went on with his matter-of-fact presentation, still in a monotone. “The things you have been delving into, Mr. Potamos, involve extremely sensitive political and global issues. I know you don’t realize that. Perhaps if you had, you would have reacted as a concerned citizen instead of a crusading reporter.” Potamos started to say something but Krindler held up his hand. He said to Bowen, “I’m afraid I don’t have the sort of patience you do. Coddling people like this, explaining things to them, is a waste of time.”
“No, go ahead,” Potamos said. “I want to hear. Hey, I may run off at the mouth sometimes, but I’m always willing to listen. Maybe that’s been the point here, nobody’s explained anything to me, just come down heavy, tried to buy me off.” He smiled. “The American way. Everybody’s got his price.” He looked at Bowen. “Only the American way doesn’t include bad checks.”
Bowen said, “I did that deliberately, Joe, to see whether you were going to live up to your end of the bargain. Unfortunately, you weren’t. I read Miss Dawson’s column. Writing a book after taking my money and promising you’d forget the whole matter—that’s very shabby, Joe.”
“Yeah, well, talk about shabby, this mess is—”
Krindler stood, picked up the tape recorder from the desk, and said, “I’m leaving. I was against this from the beginning, and I think my people will now see the futility of it.”
Potamos jumped up. “You guys have to be kidding. You want to talk about citizens. You’ve kidnapped a citizen, a piano player who pays her taxes and never did a damn thing except go out with me. I’ll have you all arrested.”
“Would you lik
e to come with me?” Krindler said.
“Come with you? Where? For what?”
“For the education I’ve been ordered to give you and Miss Blackburn. I do it reluctantly, but I do have my orders.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the reason for all of this.”
“The condo.”
Krindler went to the door. Bowen said to Potamos, “You’ve been invited to a weekend retreat, Joe.”
“Huh?”
“A chance for you to have things put into perspective, heighten your civic consciousness, be at peace with yourself. A car will pick you up in front of your building tomorrow morning at eight. Pack an overnight bag, and don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Understood?”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Suit yourself. Remember Miss Blackburn.”
“She’s at this ‘retreat’?”
“Yes.”
“Jenkins?”
“Go with my friend here now. He has something to show you, and please don’t be stupid. This has been a trying experience for so many people and it’s time it was finished, in the past. Please, Joe, make it easy for everyone. You’ll be rewarded. This time the check will be even larger, and I assure you it will be good.”
Potamos followed Krindler out the door and to the street. “My car’s over there,” Potamos said.
“We’ll take mine,” Krindler said.
“What do I do with mine?”
“Pick it up later.”
“I’ll go with you if I know your name.”
Krindler walked away.
“Okay, okay, calm down,” Potamos said, “I’m coming.”
Krindler’s car was a bright red Corvette that was immaculately clean. They got in and Krindler started the engine, glanced in the sideview mirror, slipped into first gear, and roared away from the curb.
“Nice car,” Potamos said.
Krindler said nothing, just went through the gears like a knife in butter, nimbly passing everything on the road until approaching the condo in Georgetown. They walked past the trailer and to the rear entrance of the building.
“Where’s Jim?” Potamos asked. “Jim Blake, the super.”
Murder in Georgetown Page 21
