Murder at Union Station (42 page)

“Yeah?”

“We have an address for you.”

He wrote down the house number on upper 16th Street and other information, pressed End, and asked for a check. Minutes later he was on his way out of Union Station and headed for the garage, the sundae just wishful thinking.

Stripling wasn’t the only one with upper 16th Street as a destination.

Kathryn Jalick had just started removing materials from the first box of the physician’s papers at the Library of Congress when a colleague summoned her to a phone.

“Kathryn, it’s Rich. Can you leave now?”

“I—I’ll just have to. Where are you?”

“At Winard’s house.”

“Is that where you’ve been all along?”

“Yeah. He left on a tour with a band. Can you come right now?”

“Yes. He’s on Sixteenth, right?”

“Right. You’ve been here before.”

“I know where it is. What are we going to do?”

“Fill you in when you arrive. Make sure nobody follows you.”

“Follow me? I don’t think—”

“Just be sure nobody does. See you in a few minutes.”

She went into her director’s office and announced she had to leave.

“Is everything all right?” the director asked.

“Yes, I’m okay,” Kathryn answered.

“Does it have to do with Richard and his book?”

Kathryn nodded. “It’ll be over soon.”

“I hope so. Take care, Kathryn.”

“I will. And thanks for understanding.”

Geoff Lowe’s level of understanding of anything had reached its nadir. Upon arriving at the Library of Congress, he’d taken a seat at a table in the main reading room and looked for Kathryn Jalick to emerge from behind the scenes. He saw her a few times as she passed from one area to another, and covered his face with a magazine he’d taken from a rack. Although the air-conditioning was welcome, he was uncomfortable sitting there in the midst of a hundred people buried in books.
Weirdos,
he thought, taking in those in his immediate vicinity, some of whom looked strange—were different—in how they dressed and allowed their hair and beards to grow wild.

He made frequent trips to the men’s room or outside to escape the reading room’s atmosphere. He couldn’t justify being there like some hotel detective hiding behind potted plants in search of straying spouses, but he didn’t know what else to do. Ellen had been unsuccessful in convincing Kathryn to lead him to Rich. Senator Widmer had become irascible, even by his standards, and most of his wrath was directed at Lowe. He understood the senator’s anger to some extent; the whole idea of hearings into Parmele’s days as CIA director had been Lowe’s, prompted by his having met Richard Marienthal. It was like handing Widmer a prized political gift, the sort of scandal that despite its origins had legs, would capture the media, and by extension sway public opinion. Was it true? It didn’t matter. This was politics. Indeed, this was war, and Lowe viewed himself as a consecrated combatant.

All he wanted that day was to get lucky, to see Marienthal walk into the library to meet Kathryn, carrying a bagful of tapes. If he didn’t listen to reason about handing them over—he’d use his best “It’s for the good of the country” speech—he’d hit him over the head and just take the damn tapes, run back to Widmer’s office and present them to the old bastard like a sacrificial offering: “Here! I offer you this young virgin! I came, I saw, I conquered! Reward me!”

He was sitting on a low concrete wall outside the library, tie pulled loose, collar open, sweat running down his face, watching people come and go, when Kathryn Jalick emerged through the main entrance after having offered her handbag for inspection by security guards inside. Keeping employees and visitors from leaving with purloined books was as pressing an issue at the Library of Congress as guarding against the unbalanced entering with guns.

Lowe turned so that his back was to her as she ran past thirty feet from him and waved down a taxi.

“Damn!” Lowe said as he got up and watched the cab with Kathryn in it pull from the curb and go to the corner, where it stopped for a red light. Another empty taxi approached from the same direction as the previous one. Lowe stepped into the street and stopped it, climbed in the back. “See that cab up there at the light?” he said to the driver. “Follow it.”

The driver, a burly black man with a beard, turned and frowned. “Like in the movies?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” said Lowe. “Just do it, okay? I’ll take care of you.”

Rich Marienthal anxiously awaited Kathryn’s arrival at Winard Jackson’s apartment. After having contacted her at the Library of Congress, he’d placed a call to the family home in Bedford, New York.

“Mom? It’s Rich.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“We’ve been so worried about you,” she said. “You’ve been on the news. No one knew where you were. Your father is furious. He’s in Washington looking for you. He’s with Mackensie Smith.”

“I know. I spoke with him there. He didn’t tell you?”

“No. Richard, what is going on?”

“I’ll explain it all later, Mom. Look, I’m sorry about what’s happened, but it’s all going to work out fine. Just fine. I’m coming to New York.”

“When?”

“Today. Tonight. I’ll come to the house.”

“Thank God you’re all right,” she said, and started to cry.

“Come on, Mom,” he said, “no tears. You’ll make me feel guilty.”

“I know,” she said. “I don’t mean to—”

“I have to go now,” he said. “See you later.”

“Be careful.”

“I will.”

His next call was to Greenleaf at Hobbes House in New York.

“Sam, it’s Rich Marienthal.”

“Jesus, where have you been?”

“Staying with a friend.”

“I don’t mean where you were. I mean, why did you disappear? The book’s just coming out. The media’s going nuts wanting to interview you. Geoff Lowe—”

“How is my buddy Geoff?”

“Rich, what about the tapes and the hearings?”

“What about them?”

“Don’t get cute with me, Rich. You may be enjoying your reclusive little game, but I’m not. There’s a lot riding on those Widmer hearings. The Democrats are already spinning the hell out of it, claiming the book is nothing but the figment of Russo’s overactive imagination. They’re saying you’re afraid to face the media because you know it’s all fiction. It’s time to step up to the plate, Rich, get out there and use the tapes to validate the book.”

“I’m not sure I want to do that, Sam.”

Greenleaf’s voice rose in volume. “Now, hold on, Rich, and listen to me. You entered into a deal with us, and that included cooperating with the Widmer hearings. Russo getting killed wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t control that. But you can control the tapes and how they’re used.” He paused for breath. “I’m getting the impression that you knew all along that Russo’s claims weren’t valid, that you conned us.”

“I didn’t con anybody,” Marienthal said, feeling his own ire rising. “It doesn’t matter whether I believed Russo or not. All I did was write a book based on what he told me, and that’s what you bought, nothing more, nothing less. You’re right; Louis Russo’s death was beyond my control. And you’re right that I can determine what happens with the tapes. I’m sorry if things haven’t turned out the way we all wanted them to. I still haven’t decided what to do with the tapes, but I’m getting close.”

Marienthal could almost see Greenleaf in his office chair, willing himself to become calm and to inject reason into the argument. Judging from Greenleaf’s revised tone, that’s exactly what he’d done.

“Okay, Rich, let’s approach this in a reasonable, rational manner. There’s an opportunity here to salvage the book and see it achieve the sort of success we all envisioned for it, especially you. I must admit that I don’t understand why you’ve adopted this protective attitude toward the tapes. All they represent is what Russo told you, true or false. Playing them for the public at the hearings is the fair way to go—the American way to go, it seems to me. Let people hear what the man had to say in his own voice, and make up their own minds about his veracity.”

The American way,
Rich thought. A nation ruled by the political sound bite.

Senator Widmer would proclaim in stentorian tones that the American way did not include assassinating visiting foreign leaders, and that those responsible were not fit to hold high office.

The White House would disperse its cadre of talking heads to the Sunday morning talk shows to accuse Widmer and his Republican supporters of blatant political motives in an election season, and to brand Russo and Marienthal as kooky pawns of the right wing.

Either way, and no matter how the public reacted, this was not the end result Richard Marienthal intended when he set out to write a best-selling book, his breakthrough, his claim to fame, his credential for a long and lucrative writing career.

“I’ll get back to you no later than tomorrow,” Marienthal said.

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, tomorrow.”

He ended the conversation and waited for Kathryn to arrive.

Stripling parked across the street from the building in which Winard Jackson’s apartment was located, and where Rich Marienthal had been holed up. He’d received another call on his cell phone from the Com Center in the Hoover Building, advising him that intercepted messages indicated that the subject had announced his intention to go to New York later that day, and that the subject did in fact have in his possession certain tapes.