Murder at Union Station

by Margaret Truman

  “Richard, darling!” Mary said, skirting a large stainless steel prep table in the center of the spacious kitchen to hug her son. “Let me see you.” She stepped back and took him in from head to toe. “You look wonderful. A little tired. Not getting your rest?”

  “Not lately, Mom.” He went to the black housekeeper and gave her a hug. “How you doing, Carrie?” he asked.

  “Oh, just fine,” she said. “Getting older faster.”

  He joined her laughter. “You don’t look a day older than when you first came here,” he said.

  “Hungry?” his mother asked.

  “No, thanks. Had something to eat before I got on the train. A beer, maybe.”

  He looked through the open door to a long hallway leading to the dining and living rooms. At the end was his father’s home office, where he was sure his father had retreated. Small talk in kitchens bored him. Small talk in any room bored noted criminal attorney Frank Marienthal.

  A bottle of Killian Red in hand-no glass, thank you-Rich left the kitchen and went to the office. The door was open. The elder Marienthal sat behind his large custom-made, leather-topped curved desk. Floor-to-ceiling windows behind him afforded a restful view of gardens to the rear of the house.

  “Come in,” his father said.

  Rich entered and went to tall bookcases that took up an entire wall. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Perusing books on the shelves delayed the conversation he knew was about to ensue. Eventually he turned, smiled at his father, whose stern expression didn’t change, and took one of a pair of red leather armchairs across the desk. He raised a blue-jean-clad leg and dangled it over an arm, in contrast to his father’s stoic, proper posture.

  “You wanted to talk to me,” Rich said.

  “Yes. I’ve heard about Louis Russo’s murder.”

  “Where did you read it?”

  “I didn’t read it. I was called about it. I’m surprised I didn’t hear it from you.”

  “I’ve been busy since it happened. I’m sure you can understand that.”

  Frank Marienthal paused, his position behind the desk not changing, his eyes focused on his son. “Frankly, Richard, I do not understand it.”

  “Well, I can’t do anything about that. About your not understanding it, I mean.”

  The father’s dark blue eyes bored holes in his son. “Maybe I should educate you a little, Rich. I’ve tried to do that throughout your life, but you’ve always resisted, of course. Rebellion and such.”

  “Dad, I-”

  Frank Marienthal’s hand slowly came up, fingers widely separated. “Please, hear me out. You do know, Richard, that I was firmly against this book of yours. I tried to dissuade you at every turn for many reasons, not the least of which is the secondary use it might be put to.”

  Rich removed his leg from the chair’s arm and planted both feet on the floor, as though girding himself for war. In a sense, he was.

  The elder Marienthal continued. “When you first asked me to intervene with Russo and put you together with him, I initially refused. Remember?”

  “Sure I remember.”

  “But you pressed the issue and I acquiesced. You said you needed to interview him for background material for a novel you were writing about the mob. You used privileged information to make your case with me. Frankly, Richard, I resented it then, and I resent it now.”

  Rich waited a moment before responding. “Look, Dad,” he said, “that so-called privileged information wasn’t very privileged after twenty years. Besides, it’s not information that was important when you represented Louis-when he turned informant and went into witness protection. It was outside lawyer-client privilege.”

  Frank’s eyebrows went up, and he smiled. “Where did I go wrong?” he said through a deep, prolonged sigh. “You’re going to lecture me about lawyer-client privilege? As I recall, you refused to go to law school as I wanted you to do. Another bit of sophomoric rebellion.”

  “I didn’t want to be a lawyer,” Rich said, “any more than I wanted to accept the appointment to Annapolis. I know you meant well in encouraging me in those directions, but they didn’t represent what I wanted. Why can’t you accept that?”

  “How is the writing career coming?”

  “You didn’t answer my question. You changed the subject, the way you always do. A courtroom technique I would have learned in law school, I suppose.”

  Rich took a swig of beer, started to place the bottle on the desk, but instead lowered it to the rug next to him. He felt his anger rising, and silently told himself to keep it in check. He’d lost control too often in the past when in such conversations with his father. Each time, his volatility rendered him helpless in contrast to his father’s calm, reasoned approach. No matter how right he might have been during those confrontations, losing control quickly became the issue, the only issue. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

  “Why so combative, Richard?”

  “Why is it that whenever I disagree with you, you call me combative?”

  “I was asking about your writing career.”

  “It’s going fine. I met with my editor this morning before coming here.”

  His father slowly shook his head.

  “Yeah, I know,” Rich said, reaching down for his beer and finishing it. “It’s Hobbes House. The fact is…”

  “The fact is, Richard, that Hobbes House’s reputation isn’t a secret to anyone, including you.”

  “They wanted the book!”

  “Of course they did.”

  “Dad-”

  “You and your book are being used, Richard. Isn’t that evident? You’re bright enough to see through that.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And you used Louis Russo. The man is dead because you lied to me about the sort of book you were writing. You called it a novel.”

  “It started out that way. But I changed my mind. Hobbes House is still calling it a novel to keep things under wraps until publication.”

  “Why did Russo come to Washington? ”

  “Whoa, hold on,” Rich said. “You claim you resented me when I asked to be put in touch with Louis. Well, I resent being accused of using him and being responsible for his murder. He agreed to talk to me-thanks to you-and he went on to tell me his story, the whole story. I really liked Louis.”

  “I’m sure that’s a comfort to him.”

  “He agreed to come to Washington of his own free will. Sasha-she’s the woman he lives with… lived with in Tel Aviv for years-told me she thought going to Washington was good for him, gave him a sense of purpose.”

  “You haven’t answered my question. Why was he in Washington?”

  “To meet with me. We were going to talk… about the book.”

  “I thought you finished it.”

  “I did. I just thought-”

  “You believed the story he told you?”

  “Yes. Didn’t you?”

  “No, and I told you that. You entered into this agreement with a sick, delusional old man.”

  His posture relaxed somewhat as he lapsed into what would pass for reverie. “I remember well his tales of intrigue, Richard. He was like so many of them, looking to enhance his image by inflating his importance. A strange thing about mafiosi. They consider themselves super-patriots, keepers of the flag and flame, appreciating their country more than law-abiding citizens. Crooks? They’re desperate for respectability, Richard. They know they’re nothing more than common thugs, leg-breakers and murderers. They cost this nation millions in labor union extortion and other illegal activities. Yet they seek approval from politicians and have gotten it on occasion. Louis Russo was no different. He was just a soldier in the Gambino family who got squeezed by authorities and decided to break his oath. Frankly, Richard, I’m surprised that you would give credence to such a man.”

  Frank abruptly stood and looked out at the garden. As Rich observed him, he thought back to when, as a teenager, he would be allowed to visit New York City courtr
ooms where his father defended clients accused of myriad criminal acts-rape, drug dealing, assault, arson, and murder. Some of his highest profile cases involved members of organized crime. He became known in the press as a mob lawyer, although mobsters did not constitute most of his practice. He was an unlikely attorney to be involved with defending members of organized crime, at least from Rich’s perspective. Other so-called mob lawyers were New York characters, it seemed to him, Runyonesque types who acted like their clients-brash, irreverent, fast talking, scornful of the judicial system that looked to prosecute them for their crimes. His father was the antithesis of those attorneys-Harvard educated, family money, erudite, soft-spoken, a gentleman.

  But he was also a brilliant defense attorney, dedicated to pretrial preparation, skilled at cross-examination (one of three books written by him delved into the art of that subject), and well connected within the community of judges before whom he plied his trade. His success at obtaining not-guilty verdicts was the envy of other lawyers; many sought him out as a co-counsel in particularly difficult cases.

  Once, when asked by a TV reporter outside a courthouse, after one of his mob clients had been found not guilty, how he could justify in his own mind defending people who were so obviously guilty, he replied, “The fact that you assume these people are guilty flies in the face of our system of jurisprudence. I certainly wouldn’t want someone as close-minded as you on any jury of mine. Excuse me. I have other places to be.”

  What he didn’t add was that he chose his clients based upon their ability to pay his sizable fees. A mafioso’s money was as good as anyone else’s, and they always had plenty of it to buy the best possible defense.

  Mary Marienthal came to the door as Frank turned from the window.

  “Not now,” he said, waving his hand.

  “I just thought Rich might like another beer,” she said.

  “He’s had enough beer,” her husband said. “Close the door, please.”

  She looked at Rich, who’d turned in the chair at her arrival. Her eyebrows went up. He gave her a reassuring smile and she backed away, closing the door behind her.

  “You asked how my writing career was going,” Rich said after his father had resumed his place behind the desk.

  He was met with a noncommittal stare.

  “It wasn’t going very well for a while, and you know all that. But this book will turn that around. I don’t care whether it’s Hobbes House or Random House. Geoff, a friend of mine in Washington, knows people at Hobbes House and suggested I submit the book to them. They bit, and with enthusiasm. Sure, I know their reputation. They’re a publisher with a conservative bent. Big deal. They’ve had some best sellers in the past couple of years, and that’s what I’m looking for. This is my breakout shot, Dad.”

  Rich stood and paced the room, coming to a stop in front of the desk. He placed his hands on it and leaned toward his father. “Can’t you be supportive of what I’m doing?” He turned to take the chair again and kicked over the empty beer bottle. “Sorry,” he said, righting it and sitting.

  “It isn’t a matter of being supportive, Richard. You certainly can’t accuse me of not supporting you. You wouldn’t have a book unless I’d put you in touch with Russo.”

  “You’re right, and I appreciate that. Look, I’m as sorry as the next person that Louis was killed. I guess the mob doesn’t say let bygones be bygones, exactly.”

  “If it was the mob that killed him.”

  “Had to be.”

  His father said nothing.

  Rich’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and answered. It was Kathryn.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi. Where are you?”

  “At Mom and Dad’s house. What’s up?”

  “Mac Smith called. He reminded me we’re having dinner with them tomorrow night.”

  “I forgot.”

  “So did I. With all that’s happened I-”

  “I’d rather skip it. Mac is a great guy but-”

  “I don’t see how we can. I told him we’d be there.”

  “Okay.”

  “When are you leaving there?”

  “A couple of minutes. I’ll give you a call from the airport.”

  “Sorry,” he told his father, turning off the phone and returning it to his pocket.

  “Have you spoken with Mac Smith lately?”

  “No, but Kathryn and I are having dinner with Mac and his wife tomorrow night.”

  “You’ll discuss this with him?”

  “Discuss what?”

  “Your book. Pulling it in view of what’s occurred.”

  Rich floundered before coming up with a response. “Pull it? That’s ridiculous. I wouldn’t think of it.”

  “Maybe it’s time you did a little thinking, Richard. Why haven’t you given me the book to read?”

  Rich made a point of looking at his watch. He stood. “I have to go, Dad. There’s a train back into the city in a half hour. Drive me to the station?”

  “Your mother will. It will do her good to get out of the house.”

  Frank Marienthal left the room. It was the last time Rich saw him that day. His mother happily announced that she would take him to the train station. After saying goodbye to Carrie, Rich joined his mother in her green Mercedes and they pulled away from the house.

  “Have a nice chat with your father?” she asked, obviously unaware of what father and son had discussed.

  “I’m not sure I’d characterize it that way,” Rich said.

  “He worries about you,” she said. “So do I. How is that lovely young lady you’ve been seeing?”

  “Kathryn? She’s fine. She said to say hello.”

  Kathryn had accompanied Rich on a few of his infrequent visits home, and Mary Marienthal had once traveled to Washington to spend a week touring the city with them.

  “Well, please say hello back from me,” she said, pulling up in front of the station.

  Rich kissed her on the cheek and opened the door on his side.

  “Richard,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t be too harsh with your father. He loves you very much.”

  “I know, I know,” he said. “And I love you both. I’d better get inside. The train will be here in a few minutes.”

  He went to the platform and looked back to where his mother still sat in the car. She waved and blew him a kiss. He returned her wave as the train came into the station and wiped her from view.

  EIGHTEEN

  Detectives Bret Mullin and Vinny Accurso spent the morning showing the composite sketch of Louis Russo’s killer to people in the predominantly black community of Logan Circle, in the city’s northeast quadrant. Once a fashionable neighborhood, Logan Circle had deteriorated into an area known more for its drug dealers, pimps, and prostitutes than for its once stately and genteel four-story Victorian mansions and town houses. For a while, prostitution was less of a problem after the police rounded the prostitutes up and took them to Virginia, to the chagrin of residents of that state. But they eventually drifted back. A few working their shifts on the hot streets of Logan Circle this morning watched warily as Mullin and Accurso passed.

  “Good morning, ladies,” Mullin said, chuckling.

  “You know anybody looks like this?” Accurso asked, showing the prostitutes the composite sketch.

  Heads shook.

  “You take care,” Mullin said as he and his partner continued down the street. “Don’t get mixed up with any wackos.”

  They showed the sketch to doormen and bellhops at the Vista International Hotel on Thomas Circle, the infamous scene of former mayor Marion Barry’s arrest for possession of crack cocaine, and went through Meridian Hill Park, also known as Malcolm X Park. The gardens there, which re-created the splendid formal gardens of seventeenth-century France and Italy, were in stark contrast to the assortment of down-and-out men and women occupying the park’s benches. On one was a hefty, brooding black man wearing a hooded blue
sweatshirt despite the oppressive heat and humidity.

  “Hey, Lucas,” Mullin said, sitting on one side of him. Accurso took the other end of the bench.

  “What’s happening?” Mullin asked, wiping perspiration from his face with a handkerchief.

  “Not much,” Lucas said. “What are you guys doin’ here?”

  “Looking for him,” Accurso said, holding the composite sketch in front of Lucas, one of a number of informants developed by Mullin.

  Lucas swiveled to take in the park. Mullin and Accurso seldom spoke with him in public, preferring clandestine meetings out of the sight of others.

  “Who’s he?” Lucas asked.

  “Thought you might know,” Mullin said. “He’s the shooter at Union Station yesterday.”

  “Oh, yeah. Read about it. Saw it on TV. Never seen him before.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah, man, I’m sure. What I read, he’s too expensive a stud to be from around here. Least that’s what the papers say.”

  “Anybody around here talking about the shooting?” Accurso asked.

  “Nah. Got other things to rap about, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Yeah, we know,” Mullin said, getting to his feet and gesturing for his partner to do the same. “You hear anything, give us a call, Lucas.”

  “You got something for me?” Lucas asked, again nervously surveying the park.

  “We would if you had something for us,” Accurso said as he and Mullin walked away.

  “Waste a time,” Mullin grumbled, loosening his tie.

  “How come you always wear a tie?” Accurso asked. He wore an open-neck yellow polo shirt and slacks. A tie wasn’t required of detectives unless you were scheduled to attend some official event. Visiting Logan Circle and the northeast quadrant didn’t qualify.

  “Take it off,” Accurso said, referring to Mullin’s tie.

  “Waste a time,” was all Mullin said as they continued to walk through the neighborhood, which, while rundown, exhibited occasional signs of gentrification. As they passed the splendid Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, the largest Roman Catholic church in the hemisphere, Accurso glanced at Mullin, who surreptitiously blessed himself. He knew Mullin was Catholic, but had never before seen an outward manifestation of his faith.