She said, “You misunderstood his directions. He meant the second boarded-up red building on this road, about two miles farther, on your left. An old schoolhouse. Count from there.”
Count how many? he wondered. He was trying to formulate a way to ask when she said, “Don’t count the first road that looks like a driveway. It goes nowhere. Skip that one and count five after it.”
“I’m glad I ran into you. Thanks.”
The dirt driveway’s opening was small and obscured by bushes and a stone wall. Potamos turned into it and traveled a few hundred yards before reaching a tall, metal fence with barbed wire coiled along its top. There was a gate manned by a young fellow wearing a red and black plaid shirt and jeans. A shotgun rested against a battered and peeling wood shed. The young man sat on a tree stump in front of it. As Potamos approached, he got up, laced his fingers in the gate’s mesh, and waited for Potamos to say something.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Jenkins,” Potamos said.
“What’s your name?”
“Potamos, Joe Potamos. Mr. Bowen is expecting me, too.”
The young man hesitated, then went into the shed. To make a phone call? He returned in a few moments with a question: “You’re sure you’re Joe Potamos? You have I.D.?”
Potamos’s mind was racing as he pulled out his wallet. When the limo hadn’t arrived, he’d been almost sure it was because Bowen and Jenkins assumed Krindler had done the job. He was positive now. His heart pounded as the guard scrutinized the I.D., glancing up at him to check his face against the photo on the press card. He handed the wallet back and returned to the shack. When he came out again, he picked up the shotgun and carried it to the gate. “You can go in,” he said, using a key to free the padlock from the gate.
Potamos headed up a steep, winding road until he reached a circular drive in front of the red brick mansion. He stopped, turned off the ignition. There were no other cars, and no one came to the front door. He climbed the steps and rang the bell. He was tapping the back of his hand against the revolver tucked in his belt when the door opened. George Bowen stood there. “Hello, Joe,” he said.
Potamos cocked his head and leaned back a little, smiled and said, “You look surprised to see me, George. Did you think I wasn’t going to make it?”
Bowen’s eyebrows went up and he ran his index finger over his thin moustache, but said nothing.
“This is where the party is, isn’t it?” Potamos asked. “I would have brought the hostess a gift, but…”
“Come in, Joe. As long as you’re here, you might as well partake of the festivities.”
Bowen stepped back and Potamos slowly entered the large foyer tiled in Italian marble, with bronze reliefs on the walls. “The house that Jenkins built,” he muttered as Bowen closed the door. Potamos turned to face him. “Is Roseann here?” he asked flatly.
“I’ve met many fools in my day, Joe, but you take the prize. You are the most foolish of them all.”
“Yeah? Well, maybe we’ll see who’s a fool after all this goes down, George. Where is she?”
Bowen’s answer was to open a pair of heavy wooden doors off the foyer and invite Potamos in with a sweep of his hand. Potamos could see most of the room from where he stood. It was huge, all wood and leather and Oriental rugs, with a fireplace blazing at the far end. Standing in front of the fire were Marshall Jenkins and Senator John Frolich. Another man came briefly into view as he started to join the others, then stepped back. Potamos recognized him: Paul Lewis, Anne Lewis’s lobbyist father.
“Hail, hail, the gang’s all here,” Potamos said as he entered the room, not feeling nearly as cavalier as his comment.
“You’re Potamos,” Jenkins said from where he stood. It sounded like a proclamation, giving Potamos his name at a baptism. “Why are you here?”
“You invited me. Correction—your crony here, Bowen, invited me, but the transportation never showed. That’s why I’m late. My apologies, for being late and for being alive.”
Frolich started to say something, but Jenkins cut him off. “You’re a troublemaker, Mr. Potamos, a serious one, a constant, nagging thorn in everyone’s foot.”
“And you’re a murderer,” Potamos said.
The abruptness of the comment stopped Jenkins for a moment. He sighed and indicated a leather chair near the fire. “Sit down, Mr. Potamos. George hasn’t done a very good job of explaining the facts of life to you, but I assure you I’ll be more effective.”
Potamos ignored Jenkins and looked at Lewis, standing in the corner. “What’s your act, Mr. Lewis? You part of this? Your daughter’s going to be very disappointed with daddy if you are. I was with her last night. Good kid, and she’s done her homework.” He turned to Bowen. “You taught your seminar students pretty good, George. They’ve been on the beat, digging, asking questions, and have come up with some serious answers.”
Frolich spoke for the first time. His tone was syrupy, conciliatory. “Mr. Potamos, there have been some unfortunate misunderstandings about everything that has happened, beginning with the brutal murder of my daughter, Valerie. I would ask you to show some sensitivity and to give us at least the courtesy of a chance to explain.”
“Explain what, senator? Why you hang around with the man responsible for your daughter’s murder?” He looked directly at Jenkins. “That’s right, senator, your close buddy here sent one of his henchmen, a college student named Sam Maruca, to take care of your daughter. He took care of her, all right—bashed her pretty head in. That’s what you want to explain to me, senator? Save your breath.”
Jenkins said, “That’s a libelous accusation you’ve made. I trust you have proof.”
“Yeah, I do. Sam Maruca didn’t mean to kill your daughter, senator. He was supposed to scare her off from writing about the condo.” He looked at the floor and guffawed. “Jesus, here I am explaining it to you. You know it all, damn it—the whys and the wheres and everything.” He said to Jenkins, “Maruca’s had it—he’s all through doing your dirty work. He’s in Spain, gave me the whole story on the phone last night. He’s on his way back to testify. Good enough?”
There was silence.
“Where’s Roseann?” Potamos asked.
“Safely put away,” Jenkins said.
“Why?”
“For the same reason George has been making you offers any reasonable man wouldn’t refuse.” Until this moment, Jenkins’s voice had been as flat and gray as his face and hair, but not now. He approached Potamos and glared at him, his hands tightened into fists. “This is America. This is my country and yours. There is a threat to it that could wipe out everything, for everyone. You, and your kind, will not be allowed to stand in the way of a vigilant and dedicated defense. What was done had to be done, without regard for—”
“For what,” Potamos said, “your ability to make fortunes, Jenkins? You—all of you—are a bunch of hypocrites.” He took a step toward Frolich. “What about you, senator? Are your White House dreams so desperate that you can close your eyes to your daughter’s death?” Bowen was next. “And you, you mealy-mouthed psychopath, lining your goddamn pockets while you ignore the First Amendment!”
He took them all in before shouting, “I want Roseann Blackburn! Where is she?”
He never heard the person softly approaching behind him. Two things happened almost simultaneously. Potamos saw their eyes and realized they were looking at someone to his rear. Then a powerful forearm gripped his neck and his hand was whipped behind his back and wrenched upward until he gasped with pain. The force against his windpipe was so great that he thought he was going to pass out. He was pulled backward, across the room and through the same small door his assailant had used to enter. He was dragged down a long, narrow hallway, his physical protests sending him bouncing off walls. A table was toppled as he continued to struggle. The assailant stopped and reached for a doorknob with his free hand, opened the door, and tossed Potamos into the room like a sack of grain. The door was slammed and he heard a key turn, looke
d up at a small window with closed blinds.
Someone stirred in the opposite corner. He poised against another attack, then saw that the figure was on the floor, a blindfold over the eyes, a cloth around the mouth, hands tied in back. As he became more accustomed to the low light, he realized it was a woman. “Roseann?” he said softly, the words hurting his throat. “Roseann!” He scrambled across the floor and tentatively touched her leg. She turned and her eyes met his over the blindfold. He reached behind her head and untied the blindfold and gag. She blinked and swallowed. “What did they do to you?” he growled as he worked on the cord that bound her hands. When she was free, he sat next to her and took her in his arms. “I’m sorry,” he said over and over, stroking her hair and feeling her silent sobs against his body. They stayed that way for a long time, until she’d calmed down and said, “Joe, I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Yeah, me too. What’s happened? Why did they do this to you? Have you been like this since you disappeared?”
She shook her head. “No, nothing like this. They brought me here and—”
“Who brought you here?”
“I don’t know. They brought me here and I’ve been okay. They’ve treated me well. I’ve had good food and they even let me play the piano. They talk to me.”
“What do you mean, they ‘talk’ to you?”
“About… about what’s happened, the diary, the murders… just talk, sometimes for hours.”
“Who talks to you?”
“I don’t know them. Two men. They…”
“They what?”
“They gave me a shot.”
“A shot? A needle? Some kind of drug?”
“I think so.”
“And?”
“Nothing. There were times when I lost track, you know? Just lost hours. But I’m all right. I really am.” Her voice took on the sound of sudden panic. “Why are you here, Joe? You shouldn’t be. They’ll hurt you.”
“No, don’t worry about that. I know who killed Valerie Frolich. I know a lot of other things, too. We’ll be okay, believe me. I just have to think for a minute.” He sat up straight and his hand went to his back. The revolver was still there. “It didn’t fall out,” he mumbled.
“What?”
“This.” He held the weapon in front of her face.
“No, Joe,” she said, getting to her knees and kneeling before him. “We have to do what they say. They’re right.”
He leaned against the wall and stared at her. “They’re right?” he repeated.
“It isn’t like we thought, Joe. It wasn’t a murder, not a real one. It was necessary to protect us.”
He said nothing, continued to stare at her.
She took his face in her hands and said softly, seductively, “Joe, they aren’t bad. We misunderstood, were in the wrong place at the wrong time, got in their way, that’s all.”
“Roseann—”
“Listen to me, Joe. They just want us to go away, to forget about what’s happened and get on with our lives. They had a job to do, a difficult one but one that has to be done if we’re going to survive.”
“Survive? You and me?”
“All of us, Joe, the country, our way of life. It makes such sense, but you never took the time to listen.”
“Roseann, they’ve done something bad to you.”
She shook her head, and her voice took on added urgency. “No, Joe, no, they haven’t. I told them that I understood and that I knew you would, too, once I had a chance to talk to you.” He could see her smile in the dim light and he closed his eyes. “We can go away, Joe, just like we talked about. We can find a nice place to live away from here and forget about it.” His eyes remained closed and tears welled behind the lids. “Joe, please listen to me. Everything is all right now.” There was actually a touch of mirth in her voice. “Wouldn’t that be nice, to go away together! Do you still want to marry me?”
His eyes opened. He reached out and crushed her to him, rocked her like a baby. He heard a sound in the hallway, saw a shadow, continued to rock her, the revolver still in his right hand. A key was turned and the door opened slowly. A man stepped inside and quickly shut the door behind him. Potamos started to slide out from under Blackburn and brought the gun up so that it was pointed at the man’s abdomen.
“Mr. Potamos,” a voice said.
“You make a move at us, you’re dead,” Potamos said, getting to his feet and holding the weapon up, catching light from the window. He squinted, said, “Maruca? Sam Maruca?”
“Yeah. Hey, put the gun down. I won’t hurt you.”
“You bet you won’t. You won’t hurt anybody ever again.”
Maruca put up his hands and said, “Please, give me a minute, that’s all I ask. I’m sorry I had to do that to you, but if I didn’t, they’d—”
“You had me by the neck? I ought to—”
“Please, hear me out. I’m here to help.”
Potamos paused, then said, “Get over in the corner, on the floor. Put your hands behind your head and spread your legs. You got it?”
“Why…?”
“Just do it, damn it!”
Maruca did what he’d been told. Potamos squatted on his haunches, the revolver held in both hands and pointed at Maruca’s head. “You’d better talk fast, Maruca, and it had better make sense. She and I are walking out of here and I don’t mind doing it over your body. I’ve already…” He looked at Blackburn, then said, “How do we get out? How many people are around—Jenkins’s goons, guards, anybody else?”
“Just a few—the guy at the gate, a guy who patrols the grounds, that’s all. I’ll go with you.”
“Come on, Maruca, you’re one of them and you’ll drown with them, buddy. You’re all going down the tube, every last one of you.”
“I… Mr. Potamos, it was an accident that Valerie died. I—”
“So I heard from your puppet, Walter Nebel. Big deal, Maruca, she’s still dead.”
“I know. How do you think I feel? I never wanted anything to do with it. The things I did for Mr. Jenkins were never that heavy. I told him no, but…”
“But he dangled an apartment and cash in front of you. What the hell do you think that does, get you off the hook, make you some kind of a hapless dupe? Try that on a judge.”
“It’s the truth, and when he asked me to do it again, I said no.”
“What are you talking about, Tony Fiamma?”
“Yes. I didn’t kill him.”
“Who did?”
Maruca hung his head and muttered something.
“What? I can’t hear you,” Potamos said.
There were footsteps in the hall, and the door was flung open. The guard from the front gate stood there, the shotgun leveled at them. Potamos gripped the revolver and slowly raised its muzzle, his hand and the gun’s butt on the floor. His mind was short-circuited by a barrage of conflicting thoughts: Would the guard fire the shotgun even if Potamos’s bullet caught him in the stomach? Who’d die in the room? Blackburn? Himself? His finger gently tightened on the trigger as he tried to make a decision.
There was a commotion from another part of the house. The guard turned and looked down the hall in the direction of the study. Voices. What was one saying? “…a warrant.” He heard his name. “Potamos. Where is he?”
The guard with the shotgun disappeared in an opposite direction. Potamos stood and pulled Blackburn to her feet, the revolver still on Maruca. “It’s Languth,” he said to her. “The police.”
Maruca stood but remained against the wall, his hands raised. Potamos went to him and pressed the muzzle of the gun under his chin. “You got thirty seconds, Maruca, to tell me your life story. Tell me good and I’ll help you. Tell me bad and I’ll do the taxpayers a big favor.”
| Chapter Thirty-four |
Potamos pushed Maruca ahead of him up the hall, with Blackburn behind them. They entered the study, where Frolich, Jenkins, Bowen, Paul Lewis stood facing Pete Languth, four uniformed police officers f
rom Loudoun County, and the students from Bowen’s seminar: Bob Fitzgerald, Anne Lewis, and Steve McCarty.
“What are you doing here?” Potamos asked of everyone.
Languth said, “We’re here to arrest you, Joe.”
“For what?”
“For murder.”
“What are you talking about?”
Fitzgerald said, “I’m sorry, Joe, but I couldn’t help it. I told Annie and Steve about the keys you gave me and we decided to go to your place and see what was in the trunk of the car.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Boy, it was awful! We took a vote and decided to go to the police.”
“Beautiful,” Potamos said. “You really listened to me, didn’t you, you—”
“Joe, who’s the guy in the trunk?” Languth asked.
“He’s… Hey, wait a minute, that doesn’t matter. Right here in this room are the murderers of Valerie Frolich and Tony Fiamma.”
“Yeah?” Languth said, looking directly at Bowen. “Tell me about it.”
Potamos drew a deep breath, then said, “This one here, Sam Maruca, killed Valerie Frolich, only he didn’t mean to. It was an accident, and there’s another witness to corroborate.”
Languth looked at Maruca, who said, “He’s right. I didn’t mean it, but—”
Potamos jumped in. “He was sent to do it, Pete, by Marshall Jenkins.”
Languth turned to Jenkins. “That’s nonsense,” Jenkins said.
“Save your breath, Jenkins,” Potamos said. “You’re as cut-and-dried as they come. Now, Pete, we get to the interesting part. Who killed Tony Fiamma?”
Paul Lewis stepped from behind his friends and went to his daughter. “This is terrible,” he said.
“Daddy, if I could have—”
“Shut up,” Jenkins said to Paul Lewis.
Lewis spun around and said, “It’s over, Marshall. Finished. Can’t you see that? The end is here.”
“Fool,” Jenkins said. He faced Potamos. “Do you really think you’ll manage to topple the institutions that protect this nation against the Communist threat? Do you want to? That’s traitorous. You’ll hang for it.”
Murder in Georgetown Page 24
