Murder in Georgetown

by Margaret Truman

  Potamos stared at Jenkins incredulously. He was a madman, certifiable, warped beyond any boundaries of rational thought.

  “Go on,” Languth said to Potamos.

  Senator Frolich stepped forward. “Sergeant, I’m John Frolich, United States senator.”

  “Yes, sir, I know that,” Languth said. “We don’t mean to bother you, sir. We’re here for Potamos on a warrant.”

  “Then I suggest you take him under that warrant and deal with his wild accusations at a more appropriate time.”

  “Why?” Potamos said, coming around Maruca and standing a few feet from Frolich. “Because you’d just as soon not have to deal with the fact that you murdered Fiamma?”

  “Hey, Joe,” Languth said, “you’re getting—”

  “Shut up, Pete,” Potamos said. He still had the revolver in his hand and he waved it at Frolich. Languth shouted for him to put it down, but he refused, saying to Frolich, “You’re the worst of the bunch, senator. You knew your best friend had ordered the murder of your daughter, but you didn’t do a damn thing about it, because he pulls all the strings, doesn’t he? What’d he do, promise you the White House if you went along with him? Some president you’d make, Frolich. Even Nixon didn’t murder anybody.”

  “Joe,” Languth said, approaching Potamos. Potamos pointed the gun at him and said, “In a minute, Pete. Just a minute, that’s all.” Again to Frolich: “Your buddy here, Jenkins, tried to get Maruca to take care of Fiamma the same way he took care of your daughter, but he wouldn’t—he’d had enough. That left you guys in a bind, didn’t it, a young journalism student running around with Valerie’s diary and ready to make his mark on the world by writing everything he knew about that condo that’s so precious to you. Couldn’t have that happen, could we? So Jenkins left it up to you. Was it an accident, senator? Did you just mean to talk to him, maybe hit him once or twice with a rock like Maruca did to Valerie, ‘scare’ him? Probably not. By this time you probably figured you might as well just kill him and get it over with. Kill everybody who could get in your way, in his way.” He pointed the gun at Jenkins. “You know what just happened, Mr. Jenkins? America just got saved from you and your protégé here.”

  Frolich maintained his calm demeanor. He said to Languth, “You’ve got a very sick person on your hands, sergeant, and he has a gun, if you haven’t noticed.”

  Languth said to Potamos, “Come on, Joe. I know where you’re coming from, but Sheriff De George here looks like he’s getting itchy. It’s his county, Joe, and they do things different.”

  Potamos lowered his gun and said in an almost pleading tone, “Pete, the murderers are right here, Maruca and the senator, with Jenkins calling the shots.”

  Languth looked at Bowen. “What about him?” he asked Potamos.

  “I don’t know. Look, let’s go and talk about the guy in the Corvette, but don’t leave it at that.” He turned to Maruca. “Am I telling it straight, Sam?”

  Maruca nodded. “He’s right.”

  “He’s cooperating, Pete. He’s a good kid, just got wrapped up with the wrong types. His buddy’s a witness, too, Walter Nebel.”

  “Put down the gun,” Sheriff De George said.

  “Yeah, sure.” Potamos dropped it to the floor. Two of De George’s deputies came around behind and slapped cuffs on him.

  “What about them?” Potamos asked, nodding toward Jenkins, Frolich, and Bowen.

  “They’re not going anywhere, are you?” Languth said. He came to Maruca. “You want to come with me and make a statement?”

  “Yes,” Maruca said sullenly.

  “And Roseann, too,” Potamos said. “They kidnapped her.”

  “That true?” Languth asked.

  She hesitated, looked at Potamos, then said, “Yes.”

  “This is preposterous,” Jenkins said. “I caution you, sergeant, to walk easy. You’re dealing with the next president of the United States.”

  Potamos looked at Frolich and said, “You’re not the next president, senator. You’re a murderer, the world’s worst father, and an adulterer to boot.” He said to Jenkins, “You don’t even care, do you, that he’s been sleeping with your wife?” He laughed and started toward the door. “You’re all rotten,” he said. “Rotten to the core.”

  | Chapter Thirty-five |

  Potamos and Languth sat in Martin’s Tavern. It was noon, a Saturday, a full week since the events at Jenkins’s retreat in Leesburg. They’d both ordered the Tavern Treat—lump crabmeat on an English muffin with hollandaise—and beers.

  “I still don’t understand what’s going on with the Krindler thing,” Potamos said. He’d spent the previous Saturday night in jail, was released Sunday afternoon.

  “He fell, an accident,” Languth said, shoving a large portion of food into his mouth.

  “It was no accident, Pete,” Potamos said. “I told you, I pushed him.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We were told to list it as an accidental death. End of story.”

  “Who told you to do that?”

  “Come on, Joe, lay off. Sometimes when guys like Krindler get it, their people take care of things, nice and quiet, no hassles, no public airing.”

  “Who’re ‘his people’?”

  “Beats me. I just take orders. Eat. It’ll get cold.”

  Potamos took a bite and washed it down with the cold beer. He watched Languth finish, drain his glass, and wave for a waiter. “Pete,” Potamos said, “do you think the charges will hold up against everyone?”

  Languth nodded, belched, excused himself, and leaned back, his arms up on the back of the booth. “Yeah, Maruca’s got Jenkins crucified. Dumb kid. Blew a good future.”

  “It’ll go light on him, though, won’t it? He’s a friendly witness.”

  “I suppose so. We’re talking to the D.A. about it.”

  “What about Frolich? It’s Maruca’s word against his, a U.S. senator.”

  Languth grinned, reached into his jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper, handed it to Potamos. He unfolded it and read:

  Dear Joe,

  Sorry—can’t make it tonight—got a call from none other than Senator John Frolich—wants to meet me tonight to talk about Valerie’s murder and the diary—meeting him at ten down near campus—call you tomorrow.

  Tony

  “Pete this is…”

  Languth leaned forward and said, “Joe, this is real. It’s even signed.”

  “But… you know something, Pete, it crossed my mind that you weren’t smart enough to come up with that phony note on your own. I wondered whether there’d been a real note, only without Bowen in it. Is that what happened, this note triggered the other one?”

  “I’m an officer of the law, Joe. I’d never falsify evidence.”

  “Right, and I’m Jack Anderson. One question, Pete. This note from Tony reads like he wrote it. Why didn’t you just copy it and change names?”

  Languth took the note from Potamos and frowned at it. “This is lousy writing—just dashes, no commas or periods. The kid was a journalism major. I figured…”

  “That’s what this city needs, a literary critic for a cop,” Potamos said.

  “Hey, what this city don’t need is a reporter playing cop. Finish your lunch. This beer’s on me.”

  “What about the first one?”

  “On your expense account.”

  “I don’t have one. I’m unemployed.”

  “You’re writing a book.”

  “Maybe. First I’m getting married. I’m taking Roseann up to meet my family, sort of a reunion party at my mother’s house.”

  “Going for number three, huh?”

  “I think so. She hasn’t said yes yet, but I think I’m winning.”

  “Good luck.” Languth started to get up.

  “Pete, I just want to say that I’m sorry about what happened to your daughter. I didn’t know. I’m really sorry.”

  “Well… I ought to thank you for keeping my head straight. I really would have gone afte
r Bowen.”

  “I know. I think we’re all lucky.”

  They were on their way out of Martin’s when the bartender yelled to Potamos, “Joe, a call for you.” Languth said he’d keep in touch and left. Potamos took the phone from the bartender and said, “Hello.”

  “Joe, George Bowen. I thought I’d find you in some bar.”

  “What do you want, Bowen?”

  “A chance to get together and talk. You know, Joe, we’re sitting on the political scandal of the past hundred years, maybe of all time. I’ll be breaking it over the next couple of weeks nationwide, which steals some of your thunder with the book. I’m willing to work with you, strike a deal, do it together—your writing, my name. We’re talking megabucks, Joe, a lot more than you alone will come up with.”

  Potamos held the receiver away from his ear and looked at it, screwed up his face, blinked, and shook his head.

  “Joe, are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here, George. That’s a very generous offer, but I don’t think it would work.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when I’m done with you in the book, you’ll be lucky to get space in Marv Goldson’s Georgetown Eye.”

  There was silence, then a confident laugh. “Still thinking you can topple institutions, huh? A thickheaded Greek, a hack. I’ll bury you, Joe.”

  “No, George, the funeral’s on me. And don’t worry, I’ll be there at graveside, me and Sergeant Peter Languth, maybe the only ones, but we’ll be there. In the meantime, shove your phone up your ear and start clipping coupons. You’ll need them.”

  Later that afternoon, Potamos and Blackburn sat in a New York Air plane as it taxied for takeoff to New York.

  “How’re you feeling?” he asked.

  “Fine. You?”

  “Terrific.”

  “Joe…”

  “What?”

  “Will your mother…”

  “What, ask if we’re getting married?”

  She laughed. “That, too. Will she?”

  “Probably.”

  “What should I say?”

  “Say whatever you mean.”

  “Will she like me?”

  “Nah. You’re not Greek.”

  “Then…”

  “Just play the piano good—classical music, no jazz. My father liked opera.”

  “That’s why I’m invited.”

  “Absolutely. Every party needs a piano player.” He smiled, took her hand, and kissed her on the lips as the aircraft broke the bonds of gravity and lifted into the overcast sky above Washington, D.C. “So do I,” he said.

  “So do you what?”

  “Need a piano player.”