Murder at Union Station (38 page)

“They say? Who are
they
?”

“The brass. The boys upstairs where I work.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I don’t know what I believe,” he said, starting on his new drink. “I just hear things, like you do. I sensed earlier that they want the tapes of Louis telling his story. There’s a senator here, an old guy from Alaska, who’s in charge of the hearings. There’s always hearings going on around here. Waste of taxpayer money. All political. Widmer—he’s the senator holding the hearings—he hates Parmele. The way I see it, he wants to hold the hearings to sink Parmele’s chance for another four years in the White House. That’s the scuttlebutt I hear.”

She cupped her glass in both hands and stared into it.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “What I said. Yeah, sure, maybe it wasn’t the mob that killed Louis. Maybe it was somebody working for Parmele’s cause, in the White House itself, out to save his political rear end.”

“We don’t think such things happen here,” she said.

He guffawed. “Think again,” he said. “We had the two Kennedy brothers shot dead. Hey, next time you’re over, visit Ford’s Theatre, where Lincoln was hit. Yeah, it happens here, too.”

He didn’t continue with what he was thinking, that Louis Russo wasn’t in the same league as JFK or RFK. Getting rid of an aging, sick mafioso wouldn’t be a big deal to someone with political aspirations or motives. The old guy’s life was meaningless in the larger scheme of things. The same with LeClaire, the Union Station shooter. You want to get away with murder, get rid of anybody who helped you pull it off. Murder 101.

“Richard has the tapes,” she said to herself.

“That’s what the senator wants, they say. The tapes, Russo’s own voice saying what he did. Any idea where he might be?”

“Richard? No. I spoke with his girlfriend today.”

“Did you? What’d she have to say?”

“She said he was away working on another book.”

“No way to reach him?”

“She said there wasn’t.”

“Hmm. Doesn’t sound kosher to me,” he said. She looked puzzled. He laughed at his choice of words.

She didn’t respond.

“Drink your wine,” he said. “Want another?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well,” he said, downing the remainder of his drink, “I guess we should head for the airport, grab some dinner.”

“Maybe I should take a taxi,” she said.

“How come? I said I’d drive you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t drive, the drinks and all.”

He gave forth a reassuring laugh. “A couple a pops don’t affect me. I’m fine.”

She sat rigidly on the bar stool, staring at the back bar’s glittering array of bottles and glassware. “Hey,” he said, touching her shoulder. “If you don’t want to have dinner with me, that’s okay. I mean, I’ll be disappointed but—”

“Who
are
you?” she asked, turning to face him.

“Huh?”

“Who are you?” she repeated.

“You know who I am.”

“I don’t know who anyone is,” she said. “That man, Charlie Simmons, isn’t who he says he is. You told me that.”

“Right. I checked on him. I got his plate number and ran it. His name’s Stripling. Timothy Stripling. The way I read the info on him, he’s with some government agency. Hard to tell which one.”

“Why would he lie to me?”

“He’s looking for the writer and the tapes. You said he kept asking about them. Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“So maybe he’s working for the senator from Alaska. That makes sense, don’t it?”

She turned her hands palms up in a gesture of confusion. “They break into my apartment,” she said. “The tapes. They were looking for the tapes, copies of them?”

“Could be.” The bar tab was placed in front of him and he slapped cash on it. “I’d like to know where this writer friend of yours is.”

“It sounds as though many people want to know where he is,” she said.

“Maybe we can get a missing person’s search going,” he said. “Of course, if his girlfriend says he’s not missing, just away, that makes it tough, but I’ll see what I can do.” He didn’t add that his boss’s admonition to drop any search for Marienthal would make it even tougher. He stood and hitched his trousers up over his belly. “Well,” he said, “if you want, I’ll get you a cab. I’d still like to drive you and have dinner, but that’s up to you.”

She didn’t reply as she slid off the stool, extended the handle of her suitcase, and looked toward the lobby. Mullin took the flowers from the bar and held them up. “Don’t want these?” he asked.

She lowered her head and let out a sustained, pained sigh. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Please forgive me. Louis always said it was better to distrust friends than to be deceived by them.”

“And you don’t trust me,” he said.

She thought a moment before saying, “I don’t trust myself. Yes, please, drive me to the airport.” She took the flowers from him, smiled, and said, “I think you are a kind man, Detective Mr. Bret Mullin. Thank you for being kind to me.”

“No problem,” he said, unsure of what else to say. “Let’s go. You can smoke in the car if you want.”

THIRTY-NINE

T
he phone was ringing when Mac Smith walked through the door.

“Mac. Frank Marienthal.”

“Hello, Frank. How are you?” Smith said, cradling the cordless phone to his ear as he deposited two bags of groceries on the kitchen counter of his Watergate apartment.

“I’ve been better. I’m in Washington.”

“Oh. Business?”

“Family business. Richard. I’m staying at the Watergate. I’d like to see you.”

“Want to come up to the apartment?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Mac gave directions to his building in the complex and hung up. Ten minutes later, the New York criminal attorney was seated with Smith on the terrace, glasses and a bottle of sparkling water on the table.

“Sorry to barge in on you on short notice,” the elder Marienthal said. He wore a dark blue pinstripe suit, a white shirt, and a solid maroon tie. Smith had changed into loose-fitting jeans and a pale green short-sleeved polo shirt.

“I’m pleased to see you, Frank. I know why you’re here, of course. Richard’s disappearance has been all over the news. How much play has it gotten in New York?”

“Not as much as here, it being a Washington story. Christ, Mac, to think that Richard got himself into a situation like this is anathema to Mary and me. The potential ramifications are immense. A sitting president may be accused of authorizing the assassination of a foreign leader when he was heading the CIA. The accuser is murdered in Union Station, and his killer is also murdered. And now Richard is missing, presumably with those goddamn tapes on which Louis Russo weaves some tale about killing on orders from our government.”

“Yes. You don’t believe his claim?”

“It doesn’t matter whether I believe it or not. I represented Russo, you know. The important thing is that whatever he told Richard for the book is being used for political gain. Do you know Senator Widmer?”

“I’ve met him a few times,” Smith said.

“He’d do anything to derail Parmele’s bid for a second term, even use the rants of a mob killer.”

“Have you spoken with Kathryn?” Smith asked.

“Ms. Jalick? Yes, I have. She’s lying about Richard’s whereabouts. Hardly the sort of young woman Mary or I envisioned for Richard. As long as he has those tapes—”

“What can I do to help?” Smith asked.

“Help me find Richard,” Marienthal said. “Before the wrong people do.”

Annabel came home from her gallery and Marienthal stayed for dinner. Naturally, most of the talk at the table was a continuation of what he and Mac had discussed earlier. It was over coffee that Marienthal took something from a large manila envelope he’d carried with him to the apartment and handed it to his hosts. It was a copy of his son’s book,
The Contract: The Assassination of Constantine Eliana, and the People Behind It
by Richard Marienthal.

As Annabel flipped through the pages, stopping at a photo section in which the Chilean dictator’s image was featured, along with scenes from the assassination, and earlier photos of Adam Parmele as CIA chief, commingled with more recent shots, Mac sat glumly, chewing his cheek and tapping his fingertips together.

“It’s obviously not a novel,” Annabel said, laying the book on the table.

“That’s not how the contract read when Rich asked me to review it. It’s not what he told me.”

Marienthal said in a low voice, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Annabel asked.

“For Richard’s dishonesty. I asked you to vet his contract, Mac, and you did, under false pretenses.”

“He and his publisher obviously had their reasons for wanting it to be known as a work of fiction,” Smith said. “I’m sure they tried to hide the true nature of the book for as long as possible.”

“Which doesn’t make it any less dishonest,” said the father. “I read the book on my way here. It’s filled with speculation and innuendo, vague references by Russo to contacts he had with the CIA. How absurd, this minor league thug claiming he had direct contact with CIA agents who contracted with him to shoot Eliana, on Adam Parmele’s orders.”

“Evidently Richard believed him,” Annabel offered.

“Which doesn’t surprise me,” Marienthal said. “Richard’s a dreamer, always has been. That’s why he became a writer, I suppose. I wanted him to go to law school.” He looked at Mac and smiled. “If there’s one thing you lose in law school, it’s your sophomoric na¨é. Right, Mac?”

“Maybe to a fault,” Smith said, feeling a growing need to defend his friend’s son.

Annabel brought coffee to the table and returned to the kitchen to get a plate of cookies. The phone rang; she answered. A moment later, she returned to the dining room carrying the cordless phone. “It’s for you, Mac,” she said. To both men sotto voce: “It’s Richard.”

Mac glanced at Marienthal before taking the phone from her. “Richard?” he said.

“Yes, Mac. I hope I’m not disturbing your dinner.”

“We’ve just finished. Your father is here.”

“Dad’s in Washington?”

“He certainly is. I’ll put him on.”

“No, Mac. In a minute. I need to speak with you. I need some detached advice.”

“Hold on a minute.” Mac placed his hand over the phone and said to Marienthal, “He wants to run something by me, Frank. Give me a few minutes with him.”

Marienthal’s face was gray and sunken, as though attacked by a sudden burst of gravity. Large circles puffed beneath his eyes; his mouth was a tight, thin slash.

Smith walked away from the table, went to his office, and shut the door. “Before we get into advice-giving, Richard, I want you to listen to me. I understand you’re under considerable pressure, and your need to become incommunicado might also be understandable. But you have a mother and father who are worried about you. I think you owe them some contact.”

“I know, Mac,” Marienthal said, “and I’ve been meaning to call. It’s just that—”

“No excuses, Rich. When we’re through with this conversation, I’ll put your father on.”

“Okay.”

“Now, care to tell me where you are?”

The moment Smith said it, the possibility of his phone being tapped struck him. He was happy when Rich replied, “Not yet. Kathryn has been urging me to talk to you, Mac. I’ve resisted it because—well, because I suppose I’m not ready to take advice from someone else. What it comes down to is that I am very confused at this point.”

“I’m glad you called. Now that the book is out—your father brought a copy with him, and the media is all over its publication—your tape-recorded interviews with Louis Russo take center stage.”

“I know.”

“You have them, I assume.”

“Sure I do.”

“And I assume you’re pondering what to do with them.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think this is the sort of decision to be made while under pressure, Rich. If you are seeking my advice, I urge that we all meet—you, me, and your father—and that you bring the tapes. We can decide what to do with them under calmer circumstances.”

Marienthal hesitated. “I know you’re right, Mac. Let me give it a little more thought. But you
are
right. Kathryn said you were the one to handle this.”

Handle this?
Smith thought. All he wanted to do was effectuate a meeting between father and son, and let them decide what to do with the tapes.

He’d silently speculated during dinner that there were three possible options as far as the tapes were concerned: turn them over to Senator Widmer’s committee; pass them on to the White House; or destroy them. But as he spoke with Richard, a fourth option emerged in his thinking. The tapes could be placed under seal at some disinterested institution such as the Library of Congress or in a school like his own George Washington University, perhaps not made available to researchers and other interested parties until a specific date, long after President Parmele was out of office.