“No, no,” he said, standing. “You don’t have to explain. I’m sure you’ll be just fine.” He went to the door.
“Thank you for everything,” she said, joining him there. “It was a lovely evening.”
“Glad you liked it,” he said. “Here’s my home phone number.” He handed her his card. “I’m going straight home. You call any time, any hour, you need something. Got that?”
“Yes. I’ve got that.”
“And don’t let anybody in the room.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Just keep things locked up, that’s all.”
She smiled, touched his chest, and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Good night, Detective Mr. Bret Mullin,” she said.
“Good night.”
He did as promised, went straight home. After feeding Magnum, he opened a kitchen cabinet and pulled down a half-filled bottle of vodka, put ice in a glass, and poured vodka over the cubes. But instead of drinking it, he poured it in the sink, went to the living room, switched on the TV, and turned it off again. Just a goddamn habit, he told himself. Like smoking. He wished she didn’t smoke. Who needs another drink? Not me!
He went to bed desperately hanging on to that thought.
THIRTY-THREE
Mullin knew that if he’d stayed up and watched television, he wouldn’t have been able to resist the vodka in the kitchen. Had he watched the tube, he would have seen news alerts flashed on every cable news station in town. CNN had the story. So did CNBC and MSNBC. But Fox News had the most to report simply because its on-air reporter, Joyce Rosenberg, knew more than her competitors.
She’d heard from Tim earlier in the evening. Stripling had called from home, sated with Crab Louis and hot fudge.
“I have something wonderful for you,” he’d said, “which means you’ll owe me one.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said.
“Pad and pencil at the ready?”
“Shoot.”
“All right. Here’s what’s gone down, Joyce, and you can take it to the bank. The old gentleman, Louis Russo, came to our fair city to testify at a hearing being chaired by that charming Alaska senator, Karl Widmer.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“As sure as I’d propose to you if you didn’t have Mr. Right already panting for your body.”
“Cute.”
“That I am. Okay. Mr. Russo comes to D.C. to testify at the hearing and gets his brains blown out when he gets off the train. Next, his assailant-a gentle term for his murderer-gets chopped down among the lilies.”
“I already know this.”
“But you don’t know what Mr. Russo was testifying about.”
He could sense her anxious anticipation. He paused for effect before continuing. “Mr. Russo, who seems to have a penchant for spilling his guts to the wrong people, collaborated on a book with a writer from right here in the nation’s capital, a Mr. Richard Marienthal.”
“And this Marienthal is the guy who blurted out Russo’s name to me at the station?”
“One and the same, according to my sources.”
“Which are impeccable.”
“Of course. Ready for the bombshell?”
“Stop playing games, Tim. What is it?”
“According to Mr. Russo’s account in this book by Marienthal, he-I stress he-was the gentleman who assassinated one Constantine Eliana. Ring a bell?”
“Jesus.”
“No, the Romans killed him. Russo killed Constantine Eliana.”
“Some time back. He was going to testify to this at the Widmer hearings?”
“You’re quick and bright.”
“Thank you.”
“Sure you want to marry this medical student? He’ll be off delivering babies every night while you sit home wondering what was ever appealing about the jerk.”
“The jerk’s name is Michael.”
“What’s his number? I’ll straighten him out.”
“He’s bigger than you are. Come on, Tim. I don’t have all summer.”
“Know what Russo claims?”
“Tell me.”
“That his New York family-the crime side of it-got the contract.”
“And Mr. Russo pulled the trigger.”
“This future M.D., with an HMO license to steal, doesn’t deserve you, Joyce.”
“Russo says he pulled the trigger? On whose say-so?”
“On orders from no one other than Adam Parmele, currently president of the United States, then director of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“Wow!”
“You sound positively orgasmic, Joyce. Then again, getting the big story is always better than sex for you real newshounds, isn’t it? Does your intended know that?”
“I’ll see if I can go with this tonight without corroboration,” she said, deliberately ignoring him as she counted off what she’d need. “Unless I can get a statement from Widmer’s people or from the White House.”
“Want my advice?” Stripling said.
“Probably not, but go ahead.”
“Run with it, Joyce. You wait for statements from Widmer and Parmele, you’ll get scooped. I’m giving you this exclusively. Trust me.”
He ended the call and reflected on what he’d told her. It wasn’t exactly true that he’d given the information only to her. He hadn’t spoken to any other members of the press, but he had shared it with the two FBI agents with whom he’d been meeting, laid out for them everything he’d learned from Detective Fred Peck and Senate staffer Jimmy Gale.
His four o’clock meeting with the agents, to whom he’d now mentally assigned the nicknames Curly and Moe, had been like the other meetings he’d suffered through with them. A couple of Bureau losers, he’d decided, who’d pass along what they’d learned to other inept higher-ups who’d analyze it to death and undoubtedly come to the wrong conclusion. That wasn’t his problem. He’d earned his money, pulled in markers owed him, and dutifully passed along all the dirt he could find. As far as he was concerned, job over.
Until… he received a call early that evening from Mark Roper.
“Good evening, Timothy.”
“Hello.”
“I understand you’ve done a very good job, Tim.”
“According to who? Nuts and Bolts?”
“Pardon?”
“The two clowns I’ve been socializing with. We met this afternoon.”
“I know, I know. They say you’ve performed admirably.”
“I doubt if they put it that way. So what do I do now, return the cell phone they gave me?”
“No. You’re still employed.”
“I’ve been thinking, Mark, that I’d like to be retired.”
“Retirement is expensive, Timothy. Get in your car and take a pleasant drive over into Virginia.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes. There’s a woman who very much would like to spend an hour with you, enjoy a drink together, chat about life in general.”
“Are you fixing me up?”
“In a sense. You’ll ask for the Klaus reservation in the Grill at Clyde ’s, Tysons Corner.”
“Funny name for a woman.”
“Last name.”
“Klaus? Klaus? Sounds familiar.” He snapped his fingers. “Gertrude!”
“Two hours, Timothy. Call me when you get home.”
“This is Joyce Rosenberg with a breaking story from Fox News. We’ve learned through exclusive sources that the murders of Louis Russo at Union Station and his assailant, Leon LeClaire, whose body was found a few days later in Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens, might be tied in some way to the upcoming Senate hearings into possible CIA complicity in the assassination seventeen years ago of Central American dictator Constantine Eliana. The Chilean strongman was gunned down during a state visit to Washington.”
File footage of the crime scene at Union Station, and of the aftermath of the assassination of Constantine Eliana, played behind Rosenberg. She continued.
“Fox has also le
arned that Russo, the Union Station victim who’d come here from Israel where he’d been living under the federal witness protection program after having turned evidence against Mafia leaders in New York, was to testify in person before the committee about his role in the assassination. Russo had collaborated on a book with Washington writer Richard Marienthal about his involvement in the assassination.”
The accompanying visual was of Senator Widmer walking the halls of Congress.
“According to highly placed sources exclusive to Fox News, Russo has claimed in the book that he pulled the trigger on orders from his crime family bosses, and that those same bosses had received the contract to kill Eliana from then CIA director Adam Parmele, now president of the United States.”
Parmele’s image came on the screen.
“According to our sources, the hearings will be conducted despite the loss of the key witness, Louis Russo, with the writer, Richard Marienthal, introducing taped interviews with the former Mafia boss. Attempts to reach someone at the White House or in Senator Widmer’s office were unsuccessful. I’m Joyce Rosenberg. More on this story as Fox News develops further information.”
Rich and Kathryn watched the Fox report on the TV in Marienthal’s suite at the River Inn.
They’d discussed the ransacking of the apartment-someone obviously after Rich’s tapes and notes-and speculated on who might have been behind it. Now there was no need to speculate on what people knew about the Widmer hearings and Louis Russo’s connection to those hearings. The whole District knew, thanks to the voracious cable TV channels, and the nation would shortly.
“Oh, my God,” Kathryn said, her eyes wide.
“It’s started,” Marienthal said to no one in particular, getting up from the couch and going to the kitchenette, where he refilled his glass with Coke from the fridge.
Kathryn followed him. “What are we going to do?” she asked.
“What are we going to do?” he said. “You’ve got to stay out of this, Kathryn.”
“How can I stay out of something I’m already knee-deep in?” she asked. “I’m here!”
He returned to the suite’s living room, pulled aside drapes on the window, and peered into the darkness. She came up behind and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Rich,” she said softly, “this has gotten out of hand. You’ve got to drop it, get rid of the tapes and notes, tell Geoff you’re not testifying, and wash your hands of the whole mess.”
He continued looking through the drapes without speaking. Finally he allowed the drapes to close again, turned, and embraced her. They stood that way for a minute before returning to the couch. Kathryn turned off the TV, looked at him, and said, “I love you, Rich. I hope you know that.”
He nodded. “What about the book?” he asked.
“You can’t stop that,” she said, “but you don’t have to be used the way Geoff and Senator Widmer are using you. You supported President Parmele when he ran. What Russo claimed will destroy him and his run for a second term.”
His jaw was rigid as he said, “You know how I felt about that, Kathryn. I’m a writer. It’s not my business to decide who gets second terms. I don’t care about politics. All I wanted was a good book, a best-selling book. Let the chips fall where they may.”
“I know that,” she said, carefully choosing her words to avoid stifling what promised to be a calm, reasoned, and useful conversation, the first they’d had in a while. She shifted on the couch so that she faced him. “Look,” she said, “I was a hundred percent behind you when you started the book. The novel! How could I not be? It all seemed so logical and right, learning how the Mafia works from an insider to give your novel authenticity. Your father represented him and paved the way for you to meet Russo. I remember how hard you worked to convince him to open up and tell the story. And I know the difficulties it caused with your father.” She paused, weighed her next words, and added, “It all made sense until Geoff Lowe came along.”
“Want a beer?” he asked.
“No.”
He pulled a can of beer from the refrigerator, returned to the living room, and took a club chair across the coffee table from her. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin propped on interlaced hands. On the table was a list of phone messages she’d taken from their answering machine and delivered to him at the hotel.
“Rich,” she said.
“What?”
“Get rid of the tapes.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“You know why. Russo’s dead. The tapes have him saying in his own voice that he assassinated Constantine Eliana and did it for his crime family under orders from Adam Parmele. The tapes are the only things I have to back up what’s in the book. Without them and without Russo, the book will be dismissed, debunked, chalked up to a writer’s imagination.”
“Then turn them over to the White House.”
He guffawed. “Tapes in the White House,” he said scornfully. “Tapes in the White House get erased or lost or burned.”
“And maybe they should be,” she said in a flat, judgmental tone.
He glared at her. She expected an outburst. Instead, he drew a deep breath before saying, “And what do I tell Greenleaf at Hobbes House?”
“The hell with him.”
“Sure. The hell with him! When I changed the proposal from fiction to nonfiction and sold it to Greenleaf, he bought it based upon my claims that I had access to Russo and that Russo was the real thing. The novel would have brought a small advance, peanuts for a first-time novelist. And that’s assuming I could even find a publisher. It’s not like there haven’t been books about the Mafia before. But when I met Geoff and told him the story-and he got Widmer to plan hearings on it based upon the book-Hobbes House upped the ante big-time. And then I got Russo to agree to testify in person and boom, up went the advance again. This is my shot, Kathryn. I don’t care who falls, who takes the rap, who comes out smelling good or bad.” He paused and grimaced. “At least I didn’t… care.”
Kathryn smiled. “But you do now,” she said.
“Yeah, I do.”
She left the couch and fell to her knees in front of him. “Rich, I have an idea.”
“What’s that?”
“Give the tapes and notes to Mac Smith.”
“Why?”
“I trust him. Let’s go to him, tell him everything that’s happened, and ask his advice.”
Marienthal shook his head.
“Then give them to the White House.”
“No.”
She frowned. “Not to Geoff!”
He got up and paced. “Widmer will subpoena the materials, Kathryn. He can subpoena me to testify.”
“Which is why you need legal advice. Mac Smith is terrific. You know that. His reputation is top-notch.”
“So’s my father’s reputation. I’m not about to go to him.”
He abruptly stood, went to the window again, and looked through the drapes. Kathryn waited patiently until he turned and said, “Here’s what I’ve decided to do, Kathryn. I’m going to lay low, stay off everybody’s radar. Without me and the tapes, Geoff and Widmer just might cancel the hearings. Once they do-and this whole thing blows over-I can surface again.” He laughed ruefully. “Maybe going underground will hype the sales of the book, provided Greenleaf goes through with it.” He struck a thespian’s pose. “Where is Richard Marienthal, and why has he gone into hiding? Where is the handsome mystery man?”
Kathryn didn’t find it funny.
“I have to get out of here,” he said. “I checked in under my own name.”
“Where will you go?” she asked, getting up from the carpet.
“Better you don’t know, Kathryn. I want you to go back to the apartment. Get a locksmith in and don’t give a new key to the super. I don’t trust him.”
“Where will you be?”
“With a friend. A male friend.”
Tears formed in her eyes. He took her by the shoulders, gave forth wi
th a boyish grin, and said, “Hey, no crying. Got that? I’ll be fine. It’ll just be a few weeks. Just go about your life as though nothing’s happened. Anybody calls looking for me, I’m away on a research trip for a new book I’m writing.”
“I’m frightened, Rich.”
A laugh designed to comfort accompanied his wide grin. “Frightened about what?”
“Two people involved with Widmer’s hearings have been murdered. Someone doesn’t want Russo’s story told. Isn’t that obvious?”
In his head he agreed with her. Aloud, he said, “Don’t you worry about a thing. I’m going to pack up. I’ll tell them I have a family emergency and have to leave the hotel early. You take the car and drive back to the apartment. I’ll take a cab.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He went into the suite’s bedroom, repacked his small bag, pulled the large canvas shoulder bag with the interview tapes and notes from the floor of the closet, and returned to the living room, where Kathryn still stood by the window. He stood still, too. While he was in the bedroom, the obvious had occurred to him: if he was in some sort of physical danger, she could be, too. He tried to rationalize that thought away, at least for the moment. Those who might want the tapes and notes wanted him, not her. Someone had already searched the apartment and come up empty-handed; he was certain it was the tapes and notes they were after. No reason to bother her again, except to try and locate him. All she had to do was insist she didn’t know where he was.
“Ready?” he asked, scooping up the phone messages she’d brought and shoving them into a pocket of his tan safari jacket.
She opened the door to the suite and led him down the hallway to the elevators. They rode down in silence. He informed the desk clerk that an emergency had come up and that he had to check out. He paid with his credit card, and they went out of the River Inn into the muggy night. He led her to where he’d parked the car, handed her the key, pulled her close, and kissed her long and hard on the mouth. When they disengaged, he said, “Tell you what. When this is over-and we’re talking a week, two at the most-we’ll take a nice long vacation, just the two of us. Anyplace you say.”
Murder at Union Station Page 20
