Murder at Union Station (31 page)

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 with 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.”

“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

T
imothy 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.”