Murder at Union Station

by Margaret Truman

  “I’m dying to read it,” Annabel said.

  “So am I,” Mac said.

  “You’ll be among the first to get a copy,” said Marienthal. “I have to thank you again, Mac, for going over the publishing contract so thoroughly with me. I really appreciate it.”

  “The least I could do. As I told you, publishing law isn’t my bag, but I was happy to do it.” He shook his head and laughed. “I’d never seen a contract like that, Rich. The publisher-what is it, Hobbes House?-really stacked things in their favor. That returns policy is a license to steal.”

  Marienthal laughed, too. “I know,” he said. “The publisher sells books to bookstores on consignment. The store orders, say, ten, sells two, sends the other eight back to the publisher for full credit.”

  “How does that impact the writer?” Annabel asked. “I looked at the contract, too, but my bag, as Mac puts it anachronistically, was matrimonial law.”

  Mac answered. “From the way I read it, Rich gets paid royalties twice a year, provided he’s earned any beyond the advance. But the publisher has the right, according to the contract, to withhold a big portion of what’s due him in the event there are returns during the next six-month accounting period. It’s a hell of a float for the publisher.”

  The peculiarities of the publishing industry occupied the conversation through the end of dinner.

  “We’ll have dessert on the terrace,” Annabel announced.

  “I’ll help clear,” Kathryn said.

  While the women took dishes to the kitchen, Smith and Marienthal went out on to the terrace. The night air was still hot and heavy. A full moon illuminated ripples on the river. The spires of Georgetown University were lighted in the distance. A peaceful setting. Rufus, the Smiths’ great blue Dane, settled down next to Smith’s feet.

  “What are the plans to publicize the novel, Rich?” Smith asked. “Will you be doing interviews, book signings?”

  “I think so,” he replied. “I don’t think those plans are firmed up yet.”

  “Getting late, isn’t it? You say the book is about to be published.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. They’d better get on the ball.”

  “I didn’t realize Hobbes House did fiction, Rich. I know they publish a lot of conservative nonfiction.”

  His comment seemed to make Marienthal uncomfortable. After a false start, he said, “They want to branch out and do fiction. I guess I submitted my novel to them at the right time.”

  “Good for you,” Smith said. “The public seems to have an insatiable appetite for novels about organized crime, the Mafia. I’m sure your book will do extremely well.”

  “I hope so,” Marienthal said.

  “Did Mr. Russo have a family in Israel?” Smith asked.

  “No, not really. He lived with an Israeli woman named Sasha.”

  Smith fell silent for a moment before saying, “I suppose the prevailing theory is that the mob killed him. You wouldn’t think they’d carry a grudge that long, but they evidently do.”

  “Looks like it,” Marienthal said. “Did you represent mobsters when you were practicing law here in D.C.?”

  “Not mafiosi. Other gang leaders.”

  “Any of them go into witness protection?”

  “No. Some copped a plea and did less time as a result. What was it that Russo told you that so captured your imagination? As I recall, you said he was a lower level mobster in New York, not a major player.”

  “Well, he-any chance of another beer, Mac?”

  “Coming right up.”

  Annabel and Kathryn accompanied Mac back to the patio. Annabel carried a platter of fancy cookies bought at the bakery; Kathryn brought a tray holding cups and saucers, cream and sugar, and spoons. Annabel went to the kitchen and returned with a carafe of hot coffee. Once they were all seated, Mac said, “I was talking with Rich about Mr. Russo. It’s pretty evident that his former criminal associates got even with him for having turned against them.” He said to Kathryn, “You know, of course, that Rich’s dad represented Russo during the trial.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Rich has told me all about it.”

  This led to a discussion of the ethics of cutting deals with members of organized crime in order to put others, usually higher-ups, away.

  “I’ve always had trouble with it,” Annabel said. “Some murderer with a dozen killings under his belt cops a plea, turns on his bosses, and gets paid off with a sweet deal, the witness protection program, a new life and identity, money, other perks. I just can’t square that in my mind.”

  “Was Russo a murderer?” Smith asked.

  “Yes,” Marienthal replied. “Quite a few. Mob stuff, disputes over territory, or matters of discipline-or, as the bosses see it, honor.”

  Annabel wrapped her arms about herself, as though it had turned cold. “Gives me the shivers, these people who place so little value on life.”

  Smith said, “I’ve always found it interesting and ironic the way organized crime has to operate. It’s a major industry in this country-at least it was-but it can’t resolve business disputes in courts of law as other industries and companies do. So it’s got to solve its differences privately.”

  “By killing competitors,” Kathryn said. She’d said little since they’d gathered on the terrace.

  “What was Russo’s attitude about having killed people?” Smith asked.

  “He was- Oh, I don’t know. He viewed it as a job, I suppose. He grew up in the streets, saw the wiseguys dressed nice and on the arms of pretty women. I know he was a killer, but he could also be a nice guy. At least he was to me.”

  “Mellowed with age,” Annabel commented.

  “I suppose that happens to everyone,” Marienthal said, “even mob muscle men.”

  As they were about to call it a night, Annabel mentioned a newscast she’d seen late that afternoon on which the discovery of the body in Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens had been reported.

  “I saw only a portion of it,” she said, “but the reporter indicated the body might have been of the man who shot your Mr. Russo in Union Station.”

  Kathryn started to say something, but Marienthal interrupted her. “I didn’t hear that,” he said.

  “I’m sure it’ll be repeated,” Annabel said.

  “Yeah, I hope so,” Marienthal said. “This evening was really great. The meal was wonderful.”

  “That recipe for marinade,” Kathryn reminded.

  Smith wrote the recipe on a slip of paper and handed it to Kathryn as they said good night at the door.

  When they were gone, and after Mac had helped Annabel straighten up the kitchen and they had walked Rufus, they wound down the evening on the terrace with small snifters of Cognac.

  “A nice couple,” Annabel said.

  “Yeah, they are. But there’s something strange going on.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. He seems very distracted, reluctant to talk about his book. Ever meet a writer who didn’t want to talk about his work? And Kathryn gives me the impression of wanting to say things but not being able to.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “I don’t know that either, Annabel. The whole situation is a little bizarre. Rich is put in contact with this former Mafia hit man by his father, who represented the man in his plea deal and entrance into the witness protection program. According to Rich, he interviewed Russo as the basis for his novel, which is being published by Hobbes House.”

  “And?”

  A shrug from Mac. “As far as I know, Hobbes House doesn’t publish fiction. It’s always been the leading publisher of nonfiction books with a right-wing slant. Rich says they’re beginning to publish fiction. He wasn’t terribly convincing. At any rate, Russo suddenly leaves his safe haven in Israel and shows up here in Washington. Rich says he came to meet with him, but that’s it. No further explanation. I mean, this man who supposedly inspired Rich’s novel is gunned down, and Rich has nothing to say about it? By the way, what’s
this about a body being found in Kenilworth?”

  Annabel recounted what she’d heard on TV.

  “Did you see Rich’s reaction when you mentioned it?”

  “He didn’t have one.”

  “That’s right. Didn’t ask one question or volunteer one comment. Nothing.”

  “There must be a logical reason.”

  “There must be a reason. Whether it’s logical or not is another matter.”

  “What I find unusual is that he’s never offered to show you the manuscript.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s significant. He’s a writer, probably filled with superstitions about having people see his work. His father certainly isn’t happy with his son’s decision to become a writer. That came through loud and clear the last time I spoke with him.”

  “Kids don’t always go in the direction parents want them to. My father was thrilled when I became a lawyer. If he were alive, I’m not sure how he’d respond to my having given up all that education and experience to own an art gallery.”

  “I’m sure the fact that you’re happy would be good enough for him. Ready for bed?”

  “Yes.”

  When they were under the covers and on the verge of sleep, Annabel said, “Maybe you should call Rich’s father and ask him what’s going on.”

  “Maybe I should. I owe Frank a call anyway, just to see how he’s doing.”

  “I wonder what his reaction to his client’s murder is,” she said sleepily.

  “I’ll ask. Good night, Mrs. Smith.”

  “Good night, Professor. Pleasant dreams.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  A 737, recently acquired to join the fleet of presidential aircraft, had flown into Indianapolis earlier in the day, carrying Democratic President Adam Parmele and his wife, Cathleen, a large contingent of White House and campaign staff, and a small group of reporters traveling with the president on his increasingly frequent campaign trips. Some mistakenly believe that the designation Air Force One is applied solely to the huge 747 from which the president of the United States is often seen deplaning during official and not so official trips. In reality, it is the designation given any aircraft on which the president happens to be traveling-a 747, 727, or even a four-seat Cessna.

  As with every Parmele campaign appearance, this rally had been choreographed from Washington by White House political adviser Chet Fletcher, whose exquisitely detailed plans had been transmitted to political operatives from the Indiana Democratic National Committee. Judging from Fletcher’s seeming obsession with detail, it was assumed that the roly-poly adviser relished putting together such appearances. The truth was that Fletcher did not enjoy the task, beyond deciding where the president would appear and what he would say. The requisite circus atmosphere created by local partisans-the audience of the already convinced and committed; the exuberant high school bands that would play at the drop of a hat for any politician; the balloons and posters and signs placed in the hands of the party faithful; the usual cast of local politicians lined up to praise their leader, make their speeches, and hope they weren’t backing a loser; the programmed applause and scripted cheers-was distasteful to this particular political puppeteer. He viewed such events as being akin to the epidemic of unrealistic reality shows on television. But to leave such planning to others would have been unacceptably stressful. Fletcher micromanaged it all.

  The black sedan in which he rode was directly behind Parmele’s black limousine. With Fletcher was the president’s congressional liaison, Walter Brown, and Parmele’s lead speechwriter on domestic policy issues, Laura Havran, a Ph.D. and former American history professor. Fletcher had lobbied for her to join the staff once Parmele took office; he was more comfortable around academics than around the veteran political operatives occupying the most important positions in the administration.

  “Did you make those changes I wanted?” Fletcher asked Havran as they proceeded from the airport to where the rally would take place.

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course he might not follow the script.”

  “As usual,” Brown said, laughing.

  Fletcher winced and looked out the window. A small crowd had gathered and was strung out along the boulevard to witness the procession of limousines and police vehicles. He didn’t understand why anyone would waste time gaping at a bunch of cars passing by. This was no presidential motorcade, with the nation’s leader waving to the crowd from an open limousine. That scenario had been considered. But with Indiana designated as a politically hostile state-and with JFK and Dallas always in mind-Fletcher had nixed any notion of open cars. Get to the rally as quickly as possible, put his man at the podium, pump out the requisite messages to the party faithful, bag the checks, and get back to D.C.

  “The first lady seemed in good spirits this morning,” Brown said.

  “She looked lovely,” Havran said.

  “Yes, she did,” Fletcher agreed, his attention still on the onlookers lining the route.

  “I thought Robin handled the questions about her nicely yesterday at the briefing,” Havran said, referring to the president’s press secretary, Robin Whitson, another handpicked Fletcher hire and a former academic with a Ph.D. in communications. The questions had come from a cantankerous wire service reporter known to be a perpetual thorn in the administration’s side.

  “I’m sure you’re aware, Robin, of talk that the president and the first lady have discussed divorce once he wins a second term,” the reporter had said. “Will you deny that divorce is being discussed?”

  “As I’ve said before, the president’s personal life is very much his own and shouldn’t be a subject of questioning at these briefings.”

  “Oh, come on, Robin,” said the reporter. “A president’s personal life, especially his relationship with his wife, can have an impact on his performance. The American people have a right to know if things are rocky in the White House bedroom.”

  Before she could answer, another reporter said, “Where has the first lady been? She’s never with him.”

  Robin smiled, leaned on the podium, and said, “The first lady happens to have a very busy schedule of her own, and the president supports her activities. She’ll be traveling to Indianapolis with him tomorrow. Unless you think she’s a body double, you might want to reconsider the statement that she’s never with him.”

  Fletcher squared himself in the rear seat of the vehicle and looked at Havran. “You’ve included the usual material in today’s speech about the first lady? His better half? He married up? Most effective first lady in history? Country is blessed to have her in the White House?”

  “It’s a macro in my computer, Chet. I was surprised she agreed to this trip.”

  “She’s going to have to make a lot more of them if this rumor is ever going to die,” Fletcher said.

  Reports that Parmele’s marriage was shaky and that the nation might end up with a divorced president had surfaced during his initial run for the White House. Right-wing publications and think tanks, some supported by conservative religious groups, had doggedly pursued anyone claiming to know something about the Parmele marriage, more particularly allegations that Parmele had been unfaithful on more than a few occasions. Cathleen Parmele, too, was the subject of such inquiry; it was alleged she’d had an affair during the time her husband ran the CIA.

  Although nothing concrete had ever surfaced-no evidence of marital infidelity, no smoking gun-it didn’t matter. Presidential politics wasn’t played out in a court of law. Innocent until proved guilty beyond a reasonable doubt wasn’t applicable when the world’s most powerful position was at stake. Accusations themselves, no matter how baseless, were sufficiently scarring.

  But the anti-Parmele forces weren’t the only ones conducting investigations into extracurricular lives. Fletcher had quietly sicced private investigators on those Republican members of Congress who claimed moral superiority while leaking the unsubstantiated charges against Parmele and his wife. He had orchestrated a succession of
leaks about their dalliances, real or imaginary, to the media. It was a game of mutual deterrence between Democrats and Republicans, played not with bombs during the cold war, but with revelations ready for release should the other side launch a preemptive strike.

  A dirty business to be sure.

  And exhilarating to men like Chester Fletcher, who viewed politics as war without the restraints of a Geneva Convention.

  The entourage pulled into a fairgrounds festooned with colorful banners and a thousand balloons. Spirited march music blared from huge speakers located throughout the welcoming area.

  Getting out of his car, Fletcher looked up into a gray sky, thick with rain that would undoubtedly fall within the hour. Rain was the perpetual curse of such rallies. The speaker’s stage would be covered as ordered, but the crowd would be thinner than expected. The threat of getting wet could dampen even the most fervent political zealot.

  He watched the president of the United States step from his limo and extend a hand for his wife. Surrounded by Secret Service agents, the first couple was led through hundreds of well-wishers into the fairground itself, where many more men and women, some with children on their shoulders, broke into cheers. Adam and Cathleen Parmele went to the podium and joined a dozen local dignitaries waiting to shake their hands.

  Fletcher, Brown, Havran, and press secretary Robin Whitson were herded to a spot at the side of the stage.

  “They’d better get on with it,” Havran said, glancing skyward.

  They did, one local Democratic politician after another addressing the crowd until impatience and a few stray drops of rain forced the issue and moved them on to the main event. After a rousing and flowery introduction by Indianapolis ’s mayor, Parmele raised his arms, stepped to the microphone, and shouted, “It is good to be here in Indianapolis!”

  The anticipated enthusiastic response erupted from the crowd. Parmele smiled broadly, then took in those in the front rows and pointed an index finger at some of them, as though they were old friends receiving special recognition. He spread his arms to quiet the assembled and said, “Receiving a welcome like this is gratifying. But I don’t harbor any illusions. The person you really want to greet is Cathleen, the splendid first lady of this land and-”