“He has the day off.”
“Because we were coming?”
Another cold shoulder. They opened the gate to the elevator and stepped inside. Krindler pushed a button and the slow, jerky, noisy ascent began. It wasn’t until they reached the top and Krindler had opened the gate that Potamos began to experience fear. Here he was, fifteen stories up with a man he didn’t know, who’d kidnapped a woman and had all the trappings of a weirdo who probably enjoyed pulling wings off flies and running down animals on the road. He almost didn’t step off the elevator. His mind was racing: what to do in the event that…
Krindler turned and looked at him.
“I’ve already been here,” Potamos said, still in the elevator.
“I know, but you didn’t have the advantage of a good teacher. Come on, I want to explain twentieth-century political reality to you.”
Potamos watched Krindler cross the broad expanse of concrete and stop at the edge overlooking the Russian Embassy. Potamos drew a deep breath and said, “Might as well.” He stepped from the shaky elevator platform and slowly walked to where Krindler stood.
“What do you see down there, Mr. Potamos?”
“The new Soviet Embassy. What do you see?”
“I see evil. I see oppression, global expansionism. I see a threat to our way of life, to the democratic ideals this nation is based upon.”
Potamos pondered how to respond. Was this the reason he’d been brought here—to receive a civics lesson from a guy in a bush jacket whose name he didn’t even know? He decided to ask questions. “I know you won’t give me your last name, Geof, but who do you represent?”
Krindler looked straight ahead as he said, “Your government.”
“Mine? Not yours?”
Krindler narrowed his eyes against a chilly breeze that blew in his face. “It’s our government, Mr. Potamos, but some of us prize it more highly than others. There are those who simply enjoy its fruits, and those of us who devote themselves to protecting it, protecting the likes of you.”
“What makes you so special? I love this country.”
“You love what it can do for you, Mr. Potamos. My love for it isn’t that narcissistic.”
Potamos laughed. “I love guys like you, all full of yourselves and your patriotism, like the fate of America rests on your shoulders.”
Krindler slowly turned, looked at him, and said without a hint of modesty, “That’s exactly right, Mr. Potamos, exactly right. That’s why when people like you insist on standing in the way of this country’s survival, measures have to be taken to neutralize your threat to all of us.”
“‘Neutralize.’ That’s an old CIA term.”
Krindler again looked down at the Russian Embassy. Potamos did, too, for a second, then glanced over at him, saw his right hand go inside the bush jacket, saw the revolver slowly being drawn from a holster beneath his left armpit. What Potamos did next was as natural as blinking, or swatting an insect on his face. His right arm went out and he shoved Krindler. It took only a second, maybe less, for his body to disappear over the edge. Potamos didn’t want to see it fall, but he did, fifteen floors to the ground, where it landed on its back, digging a foot into the earth. Krindler didn’t say anything on the way down, and his body bore silently into the ground.
Potamos stepped back and started to shake. Then he ran to the elevator, pushed the button, and waited for what seemed hours before reaching ground level. He stepped outside and looked around. There wasn’t a soul. Had any Russians in the embassy compound seen what had happened? Would they report it, come running over? He sprinted around the building to where Krindler’s broken body was sprawled. The revolver was ten feet away. Potamos put it in his pocket. He stood over Krindler and felt he might vomit. Krindler’s eyes were open and gazing up. His mouth was twisted, his gray Afro perfectly straight.
Potamos grabbed the dead man’s arms and started to pull, realized that all the bones in them were broken. He shut his eyes tight against the rebellion in his stomach, opened them, and again started pulling Krindler out of his self-made hole and across the ground, around the building, and to the red Corvette. He dug into the corpse’s pockets and pulled out his car keys and wallet, opened the trunk and managed to wedge the tall, lanky body into it, shut the lid and got behind the wheel.
He drove to his apartment, parked Krindler’s red Corvette in the underground garage, and went upstairs. Jumper leaped all over him, he petted her, gave her fresh water. Then he stripped off his clothes and took a long, hot shower, dressed quickly, and sat down on the edge of his bed. It was the first time he’d taken a moment to think since it happened. It was too painful, too confusing. He jumped up, walked the dog, called a cab, and fifteen minutes later was on his way to where he’d parked his car near Bowen’s office on Massachusetts Avenue.
| Chapter Thirty-one |
Potamos drove to a secluded overlook off the George Washington Parkway and took out the weapon he’d taken from Krindler. He’d found the dead man’s last name in the wallet, which contained little else: a hundred dollars in small bills, a driver’s license, an American Express card—nothing to link him to a government agency. That made sense. Whoever he worked for could be proud of his discretion.
Writing on the revolver indicated it was a French-made .380 Manurhin Automatic, which meant nothing to Potamos; he’d never owned a gun and had little interest in them. He made sure it was pointed away from him as he played with the slide and levers. He assumed it was loaded and would fire, but wasn’t about to test it. He placed it beneath his seat, looked around to make sure he hadn’t been observed, and left the overlook.
It was three o’clock. He drove without a destination until he decided he should hook up with Bob Fitzgerald and see if he’d found out anything.
Fitzgerald wasn’t home, but as Potamos left the building and walked toward his car, Fitzgerald came running up the street. “Hey, wait!” he shouted. He reached Potamos and said, “Where have you been? I’ve been going nuts trying to find you. All kinds of weird things have happened.”
“Don’t talk about weird things to me,” Potamos said. “What’s up?”
“I talked to Walter.”
“Nebel?”
“Yeah. I went to Annie’s house and she let me in. I mean, I didn’t think she would if Walter was there. We sat and talked for a couple of hours. Man, it was weird what he said!”
“Let’s go somewhere,” Potamos said as he saw an MPD squad car approach. He felt like a fugitive, a marked man. “Come on. I need a drink.”
They drove up Wisconsin. Potamos spotted a parking space across from the Georgetown Inn and took it, locked the doors, and led Fitzgerald into the large barroom. The circular bar was empty. He considered sitting there but opted for a small table off to the side. “What do you want?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t drink much.”
A waiter came to the table. “A double ancient age for me, and give my friend a bloody mary.”
“What’s in that?” Fitzgerald asked.
“Most places vodka and some spiced-up tomato juice. In here, it depends on who’s making it. You’ll get vodka, plenty of it, but if there’s some amigo in the back whipping up the juice, you’ll get a transfusion.”
“I don’t… Okay, whatever you say. Where’ve you been, Joe?”
“Learning about my country. Tell me about Nebel. What’d he have to say?”
Fitzgerald blew air through his lips and looked nervously around the room. He leaned across the table and said, “Joe, I know who killed Valerie.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“Sam Maruca.”
“Says who?”
“Walter.”
“How does he know?”
“Because…” More breath that carried a whistle with it, and more furtive glances over his shoulder. Now, closer to Potamos and a whisper: “Because… because Maruca told him.”
“Come on, Bob, why would he tell anybody if he did it?”
“Joe, remember about Nebel asking Sam to provide him with an alibi?”
“Sure. Nobody bought it.”
“Right. Walter didn’t ask Sam for an alibi. Sam suggested to Walter that he’d need one because he’d had the fight with Valerie that night.”
Potamos nodded. “So Maruca ended up with the alibi. He’s not dumb, but why is Nebel talking about it now, and how does he know, really know, Maruca killed Valerie?”
“I told you, Sam told him. It was an accident.”
“Accident?”
“Yeah. All Sam wanted to do was scare her, but he hit her too hard. I guess she really fought and he kept hitting her.”
The waiter brought their drinks, which silenced them. When he was gone, Potamos said, “You’re losing me, Bob. Start from the beginning and go slow. I’ve had a tough day.”
It turned out that Fitzgerald had little more to offer. What he did have, however, was a commitment from Nebel to talk to Potamos. “I convinced him, Joe, that you were the only person he could trust.”
“When?” Potamos asked.
“This weekend.”
“Too late. It has to be tonight.”
“Why?”
“I have… I have a date tomorrow morning, a country jaunt.”
“Ah, come on.”
“How’s the bloody mary?”
“An amigo made it.” Fitzgerald smiled. “Took the roof of my mouth off.”
“It’s even better at Sunday brunch. Call Nebel, see if we can get together tonight.”
“He’s still at Annie’s.”
“What do her parents say about him staying there?”
“They’re away on a long trip. She has the house to herself.”
“Convenient. Go ahead, call. Here’s a couple of quarters.”
Fitzgerald used a lobby phone and came running back a few minutes later. “I have Annie on the phone, Joe. She wants to talk to you.”
Potamos went to where Fitzgerald had left the phone dangling and picked it up. “Anne?”
“Yes. Look, Mr. Potamos, this whole thing is getting wild. We have—”
“Who’s we?”
“Steve and I and Walter Nebel have put together the whole story, every piece of it, something the police and you and everybody else couldn’t do.”
“I’m impressed, and I assure you, Anne, that I’m not looking to jump in and steal your thunder, but things have changed. My fiancée has been kidnapped, there’s a CIA guy very dead in the trunk of a car, and I’m this far away from the end of a silencer. Let’s not get hung up on who’s got what, okay?” The operator cut in and asked for more money. Potamos swore and searched his pockets for change, found a quarter and inserted it. “Anne,” he said, “did Bob tell you I’m doing a book on this whole mess?”
“Yes, and he said maybe we could all get involved. Is that true?”
“Yeah, it’s true.”
“If not, we’ll just do it ourselves.”
“Go ahead.”
“We’d rather work with you because you have the credentials. Besides, there’s a whole aspect of this that only you know about.”
“You bet there is, Miss Lewis. But I’m running out of time, patience, and quarters. Tonight, at your house?”
“Yes, but late. Ten, even eleven.”
“Your choice.”
“Eleven.”
“Nebel will be there?”
“Yes, and maybe Sam.”
“Maruca? Why would he be part of this?”
“Because he’s very frightened, Mr. Potamos. He never bargained for this.”
“I’m sure he didn’t. Neither did I. See you at eleven at your house. Fitzgerald will be with me.”
“Let’s go,” he told Fitzgerald as he tossed enough money on the table to cover the drinks.
“Where we going?”
“Some nice hotel where the world won’t know where we are, someplace with a fancy restaurant and maybe a health club. I need booze, food, and a little steam.”
| Chapter Thirty-two |
“I’ve never been in a steam bath before,” Fitzgerald said as he and Potamos sat next to each other on a bench.
“All part of the learning curve,” Potamos said. They’d had prime ribs with the trimmings in the hotel’s dining room, and Potamos had ordered champagne, not to celebrate, more to blot out the unpleasant reality of the day. He couldn’t rid himself of the image of Krindler’s fall. Why had Krindler decided to draw the gun and kill him? Had he acted on his own, decided to dispose of Potamos and explain it later to his superiors? That would mean he had plenty of room for discretion—or just didn’t care. Either way, Potamos could only hope that Krindler wasn’t supposed to report back to someone. That could foul things up the next morning.
They’d had a massage from a big, burly fellow named Ed Kelly who looked the name. That was another first for Fitzgerald; he must have said “I never did this before” a hundred times to Kelly, who just laughed and kept digging deeper, bringing forth loud groans.
They returned to their room and prepared to leave. Potamos had pumped Fitzgerald at dinner and in the steam room for every scrap of information he had, which turned out not to be much more than he’d offered at the Georgetown Inn.
“How do we play it at Lewis’s house?” he asked Fitzgerald as they were about to leave.
“I guess just be as open with them as you have with me” was his reply. “They’re scared, all of them, especially Walter.”
“Lewis said Maruca was scared.”
“I guess I would be, too, if I were in his shoes. You know what, though?”
“What?”
“I believe Sam didn’t mean to kill her, just wanted to scare her off.”
“Off from what?”
“From what she knew and was ready to publish.”
“What is it she knew, Bob?”
“I don’t know, but I guess we’ll find out.”
***
Anne Lewis answered the door looking considerably less calm and self-assured than when Potamos had had dinner with her at Martin’s. She closed the door behind them and said hurriedly and in a lowered voice, “We’re downstairs in the den. The housekeeper’s in her room, so let’s keep it down. I don’t want her to hear anything.”
The house was beautifully furnished. Paul Lewis’s clients obviously paid him handsomely to manipulate the American governmental process in their favor. Anne led them through an arch and down a wide flight of stairs to a paneled room with a pool table, projection-screen TV, sauna, and minigym. Steve McCarty was sitting in a corner with a young man Potamos assumed was Walter Nebel. He was Germanic in appearance, tall, and well built, his upper body defined through a tight yellow T-shirt. His hair was short and sandy-colored, his features sharp. There was a certain feminine quality to his looks, pretty rather than handsome.
Rock music played at low volume. A large brown dog bounded across the room, sniffed Potamos’s shoetops, then ran up the stairs.
Fitzgerald introduced Potamos to Nebel, who stood as an afterthought and shook his hand. “Hello, Steve,” Potamos said to McCarty. McCarty nodded but said nothing.
“Mind if I sit down?” Potamos asked.
Lewis pulled three director’s chairs into a semicircle around McCarty and Nebel. Potamos sat down between Fitzgerald and Lewis. He looked at Nebel for a long time before saying, “I understand you have a story to tell.”
Nebel glanced nervously at the others. “I’m not sure you’re the one to tell it to.”
Potamos sighed, looked at the ceiling, and said to Lewis, “I thought this was worked out.”
“There’s really nothing to be afraid of Walt. You didn’t do anything wrong,” Lewis said to Nebel.
“Except run,” Potamos said. “How come you did?” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
“Because I didn’t want to be involved” was Nebel’s response.
“With Valerie’s murder?”
“Of course. You know I used to go out with
her.”
Potamos nodded.
“And that we saw each other after the barge party and got into a fight that other people saw.”
“Right, but that wouldn’t automatically make you a suspect. Okay, maybe I can understand panicking like that and taking off, but what’s this about the false alibi you and Sam Maruca cooked up? Bob told me it was Maruca who suggested that you needed one, not that you asked for it. Is that right?”
“Yes.” He was barely audible.
“Why did he do that?”
“Because…”
Lewis said, “Before we go any farther, Joe, I think we should talk about the arrangement.”
“What arrangement?”
“The book you’re doing. Bob told us that if we all work together, we can share in the credit and proceeds.”
Potamos held his true feelings in check and said in a calm, well-modulated voice, “And that’s the only reason you’re coming forth with this?”
McCarty said, “No, but it makes sense. We’ve done a lot of work, a lot of digging. We know things that no one else does, including you. We could go to the police, but—”
“Which is exactly where you should be going,” Potamos said, anger creeping into his voice.
“I don’t want that,” Nebel said, “at least not yet.”
“Why not? You didn’t kill anybody, did you?”
“No!” It was the first animation from him.
“Your buddy Maruca did?”
They all looked at each other. McCarty answered: “Yes, he killed her, but it was an accident. It wasn’t supposed to turn out that way.”
Potamos sat back, thought for a minute, then said, “What was it supposed to be?”
There was no answer.
“Hey, look,” Potamos said, “I didn’t come here to play twenty questions. I don’t have much time. Who sent Maruca? You, Nebel?”
“No, I—”
“Her father?”
“Marshall Jenkins,” McCarty said.
Potamos puffed his cheeks and grunted. “Proof?”
“That’s what Sam says.”
“Why would Jenkins send a college kid to scare a senator’s daughter out of something?”
Lewis started to answer, but McCarty got up and cut her off. He stood in front of Potamos like a lawyer arguing a case and said, “I really think we should work out our agreement before we allow another thing to be said. Here….” He handed Potamos an envelope. “It’s a simple letter of agreement among us concerning anything that’s written about the Frolich and Fiamma murders. We’ll work as a team and split the money, fifty percent to you, the rest to us. You get the major by-line, but we get a ‘With the help of’ credit. Go ahead, look at it. I drew it up. It’s only two paragraphs.”
Murder in Georgetown Page 22
