“Okay. Not Israel, not D.C.”
“Now, go on, go home. I’ll keep in touch. I’ll call when I can.”
“Okay.”
He gripped her chin with his thumb and forefinger, tilted her face up to meet his, and said, “Come on now, get rid of that deer-in-the-headlights look and give me a smile.”
She obliged.
“There’s absolutely nothing to worry about,” he said, opening the driver’s-side door to allow her to slip behind the wheel. She started the engine, switched on the lights, and turned to him.
“You look so sexy in those glasses,” he said, causing her to laugh. He closed the door and watched her drive away, the car’s red taillights disappearing in the thick cloud that seemed to have suddenly descended on the area called Foggy Bottom.
THIRTY-FOUR
Timothy Stripling stopped at a supermarket on his way home from Virginia to pick up items for the apartment-orange juice, English muffins, fruit salad, a quart of milk, and a package of Good Humor toasted almond pops, his favorites. He put his purchases away, got out of his suit, and took a fast shower. With a towel draped around his midsection, he went to his bedroom closet, opened the safe, and removed from it his two registered handguns, a 9-millimeter Tanarmi parabellum model with a fifteen-shot magazine, and a customized, snub-nosed Smith & Wesson.44 Magnum, made considerably smaller than its original version and popular with undercover cops. After examining them, he loaded the Smith & Wesson, returned the Tanarmi and ammunition to the safe, took a shoulder holster that hung among his suits, slipped the Smith & Wesson into it, and went to the kitchen. There, with a bowl of Ben & Jerry’s on the table next to the holstered weapon, he went through the ice cream and the materials contained in a dog-eared manila file folder.
Earlier that evening, when Stripling entered the Grill at Clyde’s in Tysons Corner, Gertrude Klaus, one of many assistant attorneys general in the Parmele administration, was at the bar sipping a colorful drink with a pink parasol protruding from it. She looked different this night from the first time he’d met her. Her retro hairdo had been replaced with a softer, more natural and modern look; the severe suit she’d worn during their first meeting had been discarded in favor of a multicolored sheath.
“Hello, Gertrude,” Stripling said, sidling up next to her. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
She turned and said, “Mr. Stripling,” as though reading his name from a list.
Stripling said to the bartender, “A perfect Rob Roy, straight up.” And to her: “You’re buying, I’m told.”
She laid cash on the bar, swiveled on her bar stool, and indicated with a nod of her head that they were going to a booth in a secluded end of the Grill. She received her change, left what Stripling considered an inadequate tip, and carried her half-consumed drink to the booth. He followed, admiring the sway of her hips on the way. She slipped into one side of the booth, he into the other. A waitress delivered his Rob Roy.
“You look different at night,” he said, raising his glass.
She didn’t return the toast. Instead she sat and stared at him.
“So, Gertrude,” he said, “why am I here?”
“Have you had dinner?”
“As a matter of fact, no, but I wouldn’t want to put a strain on Justice’s budget.”
She motioned for the waitress to return with menus. She opened hers and almost immediately closed it. “A Cobb salad, oil and vinegar on the side.” She cocked her head at Stripling, who hadn’t opened his.
“Might as well make it the same,” he said.
“So,” he said when the waitress had left them alone, “I’ll ask again. Why am I here?”
He noticed her makeup, nicely applied.
“An assignment,” she said. “A very sensitive one.”
“An assignment,” he repeated with exaggerated awe. “Sounds absolutely spooky.”
“Mr. Stripling, the attorney general-”
“Wait a minute, Gertrude,” Stripling said. “Let me get this straight. What’s your job with the AG?” When he received no reply, he continued. “What do they do, keep you in a frumpy suit during working hours, then tell you to drag out your prom dress and mascara and have clandestine meets with people like me? You look good.”
Her expression was vacant, nonresponsive.
The waitress brought rolls and butter.
“No offense,” he said.
“I took none. If you’re finished with your snappy dialogue, Mr. Stripling, I can get to the point.”
“I can’t wait.”
She glanced down at blood-red nails on one of her hands before speaking. “I don’t like you, Mr. Stripling. I find you offensive. For the record.”
“I take that as a compliment,” he said, settling back in the booth and crossing his arms on his chest. “For the record.”
She beckoned him closer with her index finger, and he obliged. She, too, leaned forward. Her voice was low but clear. “That said,” she said, “I also understand that when certain tasks must be accomplished, we can’t always deal with those people we like.”
“Go ahead, Gert. I’m listening.”
If his pointed use of her first name rankled, she didn’t show it.
“You are aware, Mr. Stripling, that we are in the midst of a war against terrorism.”
“Yeah, I heard something about it. How’s it going?”
She ignored his flippancy. “Significant progress has been made under President Parmele’s leadership.”
“Is this a pitch for a campaign contribution? Who do I make the check out to?”
Her face reflected her first moment of pique since he’d entered the bar. It caused him to smile. He said, “Let me see, Gertrude, I was told to drive over here to Tysons Corner to receive a personal briefing on the war against terrorism. I really appreciate it, but I had other plans for the evening. You mentioned an assignment. What is it?”
Her answer was delayed by the arrival of their salads. He wished he’d ordered something more substantial, a burger or a rack of ribs. Once the waitress had departed, she said, “I have other plans this evening, too, Mr. Stripling, so I’ll get to the point. I’ll talk, you eat-and listen. When I’m finished, please leave.”
“Good,” he said, spearing a forkful of salad. “You’re on. You’ve got until I finish this salad, which should give you about six and a half minutes.”
Seven minutes later, he wiped his mouth with his napkin, took a healthy swig of water, and said, “Nice presentation, Gertrude. You must make the attorney general proud. I’ll get on it right away.”
She started on her salad.
“When I find the stuff you’re looking for and the guy, I’ll let you know.”
“Through your usual channels. We never had this meeting.”
He placed a small piece of paper on which he’d been taking notes into the breast pocket of his shirt, laughed, and slid from the booth. “Believe me, Gertrude,” he said, looking down at her, “I’ll find it easy to forget I ever saw you.”
Now, back in his apartment, he finished his ice cream and reviewed the notes he’d taken during his meeting with Assistant Attorney General Gertrude Klaus. He’d written on the paper the names Frank Marienthal (New York mob attorney, father of Richard Marienthal, represented Russo), and Mackensie Smith (family friend, former criminal lawyer in D.C., prof at GW, vetted Marienthal’s publishing contract), and took another look at a picture of Richard Marienthal he’d taken from the folder on the kitchen table. He dialed Marienthal’s number.
“Hello?” Kathryn Jalick said.
“Is Richard there?” Stripling asked.
“Who’s calling?”
“Name’s Simmons. I’m with Liberty Media. I’ve been assigned to interview him about his new book.”
“I-I’m afraid he’s not here.”
“My bad luck. When do you expect him?”
“Not for a while. He’s away-researching his next book.”
“If you’ll give a number, I’ll
be happy to call him no matter where he is. I’m on deadline.”
“I don’t have a contact number for him, Mr.-”
“Simmons. Charlie Simmons. I’ll try him again another time.”
“If you give me a number at which you can be reached, I’ll-”
The line went dead as he quietly lowered the receiver into its cradle.
He took another look at Marienthal’s photo, shook his head, and muttered, “Terrorist, my ass.” He went to the bedroom, where he dressed in slacks, an open-neck shirt, a blue denim sports jacket, and loafers. Returning to the kitchen, he secured his holster beneath the jacket. Its weight felt strange; he hadn’t worn it or killed anyone in four years.
He took a taxi to the Lincoln Suites Hotel on L Street and picked up a house phone in the lobby. Sasha answered on the first ring.
“Ms. Levine, this is Charlie Simmons. I’m a friend of Richard Marienthal.” He generally used the fictitious first name Charlie because he’d decided over the years that people tended to believe people named Charlie.
“Oh, hello,” she said.
“I hope I’m not calling too late,” he said pleasantly.
“No, not at all. I was reading a book.”
“Hope it’s a good one,” he said.
“A very good one.”
“I’ve been trying to get hold of Richard all evening. I thought-”
“I have been trying to reach him, too,” she said.
He laughed. “You know what writers are like,” he said. “Always disappearing. Any idea where he is?”
“No.”
“I know how excited he is with the book coming out and all. Boy, I have to admit that when he played some of those tapes for me, my hair stood on end.”
“He played the tapes for you?”
“Just some, a few selected portions. He told me all about you and Mr. Russo. I couldn’t believe it when he was killed like that, right in broad daylight in Union Station with a million people around.”
“You said your name was?”
“Charlie Simmons. Rich and I go back a long way.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t believe he ever mentioned you.”
“We kind of lost touch for a while. Any chance of buying you a drink?”
“Oh, that’s very kind, but I’m afraid I’m not up to a drink. Tomorrow I must-”
“Tomorrow?”
“Nothing. Thank you for calling. If you will give me your number, I’ll ask Rich to call if I hear from him.”
“Sure you can’t spare me even a few minutes? Not even a quick cup of coffee? Rich said so many nice things about you that I’d hate to miss the chance to at least say hello in person. I don’t get to Israel very often.”
There was a pause before she said, “All right. But only a quick cup.”
“Great. I’m right around the corner. Be there in five minutes. See you in the lobby. You’ll recognize me. I’m the handsome one in the blue denim jacket.”
Bret Mullin’s experiment with going to bed sober was short-lived. The phone rang minutes after he’d turned out the light. “Mullin,” he said.
“Bret? It’s Rosie.”
He hadn’t heard from his former wife in a month; the familiar sound of her husky voice was welcome.
“How are you, Rosie?”
“All right. I hope I’m not calling too late.”
“No, no, you know me. A night owl.” He was aware that he sounded clearheaded, and was pleased that he did. “What’s up?”
“It’s Cynthia, Bret. She was in a car accident earlier tonight.”
“Jesus. Is she okay?”
“Some bruises and a mild concussion. They treated her at the hospital and released her. She called me from home.”
“Thank God she’s okay. Not seriously hurt, I mean.”
“Bret, she needs money. Her car was totaled. And she doesn’t have health insurance.”
“Doesn’t have health insurance? How can that be? Everybody needs health insurance in case something like this happens. What’s wrong with her?”
He heard her sigh on the other end.
“All I mean is-”
“Bret, this isn’t a time for a lecture on health insurance. She doesn’t have any. That’s reality. Can you send her some money?”
“Yeah, I guess I can. I’ve got some savings, not a lot-the divorce and all-and I can borrow against my credit union account. How much does she need?”
“She has to find a car, a secondhand one, I’m sure. I don’t know how much the hospital costs, but you know how expensive hospitals can be. Five thousand?”
“Whew!” He resisted the urge to ask why his daughter hadn’t called him, why she never called, why she thought she could cut him out of her life, but was comfortable taking his money.
“Will you send her the money, Bret? I’m short of funds, but I’ve already written a check for a thousand. Can you send four thousand?”
“Okay.”
“You have her address.”
“If she hasn’t moved in the past year.”
“She hasn’t.”
“Good.”
“Bret.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t go writing her a nasty letter with the check. She needs help, nothing more.”
“Yeah, sure. Right.”
“Thanks. You’ve been okay?”
“I’m fine. You?”
“Fine. Just fine. Thanks again. I know she’ll appreciate it.”
The conversation over, he went to the kitchen and poured bourbon into a water glass over a few cubes. He checked his watch; too late to call Sasha at the hotel? He decided it wasn’t and dialed the hotel, was connected to her room. No answer. He didn’t leave a message on her voice mail.
He was wide awake. After another tumbler of bourbon, he brushed his teeth and dressed in the suit, shirt, and tie he’d worn earlier that day. “Hey, buddy,” he told Magnum, “guard the joint till Poppa gets back.” The black-and-white cat rubbed against his shin, and he reached down to scratch its head. He loved that cat. He was halfway out the door when he retreated to the bedroom, rummaged through a bureau drawer, and came up with a cigarette lighter. He tried it; it worked. He pocketed the lighter and left.
It wasn’t his business that Sasha wasn’t in her room when he called, and he knew it, acknowledged it as he drove in the direction of the Lincoln Suites Hotel. But why wasn’t she in her room? She’d said she was tired. She didn’t know anyone in Washington except for the writer, Marienthal, and she hadn’t been able to reach him. He hoped she hadn’t decided to take a walk. It was dangerous for a woman to walk around alone at night, especially someone who didn’t know the city and its notorious areas. How many crimes had he investigated that involved women walking alone at night? Plenty.
Had she come down for coffee or a nightcap and met someone? Women were so vulnerable to smooth-talking strangers, weirdos in sheep’s clothing. This is silly, he told himself, driving faster. Chances were she’d been in the bathroom when he’d called and hadn’t heard the phone. Did the hotel have a phone in the bathroom? Many did these days. Someone had broken into her apartment in Tel Aviv. Why? Did it have to do with her lover, Russo?
He pulled to the curb across from the hotel, turned off his lights, and debated what to do. Should he use his cell phone and call again? Make the call from a lobby phone? Would he look like a fool? He shouldn’t have had the drinks before leaving the apartment. He should have had vodka. He didn’t want to see her smelling like a distillery.
He turned off the ignition, opened the door, maneuvered his large belly past the steering wheel, planted his feet on the concrete, and straightened. He was about to close the door when he saw Sasha step through the hotel’s front entrance. A man wearing a blue denim jacket was with her. Mullin’s stomach churned. If she had some boyfriend in D.C., why didn’t she just say so? He decided to leave, but before he could reenter the car, Sasha saw him and waved. He muttered an obscenity under his breath. How could he expla
in being there that time of night? What lame excuse could he come up with in front of her male friend?
He didn’t have a choice. He hitched up his pants, waited for a car to pass, and slowly crossed the street.
“Hello there,” she said.
“Hi,” Mullin said, not looking at Stripling.
“This is a surprise,” she said, suddenly aware of the awkward moment taking place. “Oh, Detective, this is Mr. Charlie Simmons. He’s a friend of Richard Marienthal.”
“Detective?” Stripling said, not offering his hand.
“Bret Mullin,” Mullin said, extending his hand, which Stripling took. A weak handshake, Mullin thought. He took some pleasure in being taller and bulkier than this Charlie, whoever he was. To Sasha: “I was just in the neighborhood and-”
“Detective Mullin has been taking good care of me since I came to Washington,” she said. “He’s my only friend here.”
As she spoke, Mullin looked more closely at Stripling’s face. It was familiar.
“You’re a friend of the writer who worked with Ms. Levine’s-ah, former friend?” Mullin said.
“Yes,” said Stripling, sounding defiant.
“Everybody seems to be looking for this writer,” Mullin said. “When’s the last time you saw him?”
Stripling looked at Mullin quizzically. What is this, challenge time? he thought. Fat slob of a detective, he thought. Looks like a boozer to me. Smells like it, too.
“I haven’t seen my old buddy, Rich, in months,” said Stripling.
“Any idea where he is?” Mullin asked.
“I asked Charlie the same thing,” Sasha said.
“You a writer, too?” Mullin asked. He was over his embarrassment; his detective’s penchant for asking questions had replaced it. There was something about this man who called himself Charlie that didn’t ring right to him. He’d seen him before. He was sure of it.
“No,” Stripling said. “This was really nice,” he said. To Sasha: “Eight o’clock tomorrow?”
“Yes. Eight o’clock.”
What’s this all about? Mullin wondered.
“Take it easy, Detective,” Stripling said.
Murder at Union Station Page 21
