Murder at Union Station (28 page)

“I don’t know.”

Garson grimaced and hunched his shoulders, running a hand through his thicket of unruly gray hair. “Know what I think?” he said.

“What?”

“I think you’re right—
if
this Russo is who you say he is, and
if
he’s willing to lie in front of a Senate committee.”

Garson’s assumption that Russo would be lying if he testified might have provided a modicum of comfort to Fletcher. It didn’t. If this thing progressed to the point of a former member of the Mafia testifying that the president of the United States had, while head of the CIA, in fact, ordered the assassination of a Central American leader, one of the many spins put on it would be that he was lying, seeking his day in the sun, his fifteen minutes of fame, demented, ailing and losing his faculties, a criminal, a lifetime liar and cheat, all the usual, the dupe of a vindictive senator out to destroy a presidency.

Better not to have it happen in the first place.

“Can you find out more about Russo and what he intends to say in front of the committee?” Fletcher asked.

“I’ll get on it,” Garson replied gruffly.

“It has to be kept away from the White House.”

“You damn well bet it does,” said Garson, standing. “And from Justice, too. Does he know?”

“The president? No.”

“Better he doesn’t until we have a better handle on it.”

“I agree.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

The 747’s PA system came to life from the cockpit: “We’ll be landing in twenty-two minutes.”

Parmele put on his shoes and laced them. Fletcher waited for the president to speak. He’d laid out everything he knew about the Widmer hearings, which was considerably more than Walter Brown had known. Parmele remained silent during Fletcher’s briefing. Shoes tied, he turned to his political adviser, smiled, and said, “I think I owe the Mafia a debt of gratitude, Chet.”

“Sir?”

“For getting rid of this turncoat. What’s his name? Louis Russo? They did me a favor.”

“But there are the tapes and notes, sir. And I expect that the writer will be called to testify, too.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky with him, too. What do you know about him?”

Fletcher started to respond, but Parmele cut him off. “I’m sure he didn’t vote for me,” he said with a small chuckle. “Do what you can, Chet. I’ll be damned if some hack writer and a lying mafioso are going to deny me a second term.”

The president slapped Fletcher on the back, left the office, and went to the press section, where he told reporters, “Sorry I couldn’t be with you earlier. I’m sure Robin has taken good care of you.”

“Sir, any comment about why Mrs. Parmele decided at the last minute to not make this trip?” he was asked.

Parmele flashed a big smile and said, “She’s probably gotten bored of hearing me extol her virtues on the stump. Needed a day off from me—and you. See you on the ground.”

THIRTY-TWO

A
s Adam Parmele, president of the United States, winged south in search of a second term, Alaska Senator Karl Widmer was hard at work in Washington, D.C., doing what he could to deny him another four years.

The mood in the senator’s suite was not upbeat that morning. Members of his staff knew what the tenor of the day would be the moment the aging, cantankerous Alaskan stepped through the door. They’d learned to read his walk, posture, and facial expressions, and the tone of his voice when, or if, he bothered to return their greetings.

He’d started the day by attending a morning prayer breakfast with like-minded legislators. The exhibition of kindness to his fellow human beings was quickly left behind. He ignored those saying “Good morning, sir,” as he entered his private office, flung his jacket on a couch, and took the chair behind his desk.

Carol, his lead secretary, followed him in carrying a sheaf of phone messages. “Senator,” she said, holding up papers, “these two are especially important.”

He indicated that she should put them on his desk as he picked up the phone and dialed an office within the Dirksen Building. She did as instructed, careful to keep the two priority ones separate, and quickly left. She’d been with Widmer long enough—since he first came to Congress—to know when to leave him alone. This was one of those times. She was almost to the door when he barked, “Where’s Lowe?”

She turned. “Geoff was here earlier, sir, but he left just before you arrived.”

“Get holda him. Now!”

“Yes, sir.” She’d almost said, “I’ll try,” which might have prompted something like, “Do better than try.” Or worse.

She went to where Ellen Kelly was in her office at the far end of the suite.

“Do you know where Geoff went?” she asked.

“No.”

“Try and reach him on his cell, Ellen. The senator is anxious to talk to him. I’d do it, but I’m swamped.”

“And I’m not?” Ellen said, not looking up from her computer screen.

Widmer’s secretary turned on her heel, a sour expression on her face, and went to her desk, where she dialed Lowe’s cell phone number. After six rings, a recorded voice informed the caller that the cell phone user was not available, and suggested leaving a voice mail message.

“Geoff, this is Carol. Senator Widmer is anxious to speak with you. Please call the minute you hear this.”

Lowe’s cell phone rang in his pocket, but he ignored it. He stood in the foyer of Rich and Kathy’s building and held his thumb against the buzzer for their apartment, a string of four-letter words augmenting the metallic sound.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered as he left the foyer and got into his car.

This time he answered the ring of his phone.

“Geoff, it’s Ellen.” Her voice was muffled, as though she used a hand to keep others from hearing.

“He’s not there,” Lowe said.

“Geoff, the senator wants to talk to you right away.”

“Yeah, I bet he does. I can’t find Rich. Not a sign of him at the apartment. No answer on his phone. Damn! Did you try Kathryn at work?”

“She called in sick.”

He breathed hard. “What the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know, Geoff. But the senator—”

“Look, Ellen, make some calls, huh? You’ve met some of Kathryn’s girlfriends. See if you can find somebody who knows where the hell she is. Knows where
Rich
is.”

“The senator—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. We have to find Rich. I told you I tried to get him to give me the tapes and notes, and I thought he was going to. We need him and those tapes. That’s why Widmer wants to see me. He wants to know whether I have them.”

“I’ll make calls.”

“Good. Tell Widmer I’ll be back in an hour. Tell him I—I’m pulling together top secret materials for the hearing. Tell him everything is on track.”

He ended the call and dialed 411, requesting the number for Mackensie Smith, in the Watergate Apartments.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Smith?”

“Yes.”

“This is Geoff Lowe, Mr. Smith. I’m a friend of Rich Marienthal.”

“Oh, yes. He’s mentioned you.”

“And he often speaks of you. I know you handled his book contract.”

“I wouldn’t say I handled it. Looked it over. What can I do for you?”

“I’ve been trying to get hold of Rich, Mr. Smith. I thought you might know how I can reach him.”

“Sorry, but I’m no help. You’re not the only one looking for him.”

Lowe forced a laugh. “The vanishing author. Well, I thought it was worth a try.”

“If I do hear from him, I’ll mention you’re looking for him.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that. Have a good day, and sorry to have bothered you.”

Another call went to Hobbes House in New York. “This is Geoff Lowe, on Senator Karl Widmer’s senior staff,” he told the receptionist. “It’s important I speak with Sam Greenleaf.”

Greenleaf came on the line. “I’m glad you called,” he said. “I’ve left three messages on Rich’s machine. You don’t know where he is?”

“No. That’s why I’m calling.”

“Russo’s murder was a hell of a shock.”

“Tell me about it. Look, not having Russo testify in person at the hearings is a blow. But it’s not fatal—as long as we have Rich’s taped interviews with him.”

“And Rich to validate the recordings.”

“That, too. What’s the status of the book?”

“Funny you should ask. I have the first copies off the press on my desk. They arrived this morning. They look great. I’m having a courier deliver a dozen to you at the senator’s office.”

“When will you start promoting?” Lowe asked.

“Immediately. But I don’t think we’ll have to do much.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re already getting calls from media. Fox News seems to know the whole story—or at least the guts of it. Our publicity people got a call this morning from a Fox reporter in Washington. Looks like your dam has developed some leaks—big ones.”

“That’s okay. If you hear from Marienthal, please call me any time, day or night. Frankly, I’m pretty damned upset with Rich. I sent him and his book to you in the first place, and he pulls this crap on me. Here’s my cell number.”

“Good luck with your hearings, Geoff. Looks like we might have a best seller on our hands, and you’ve got an issue to run with.”

Lowe considered trying to reach Marienthal’s father in New York, but thought better of it. He checked his watch. No sense in postponing Widmer any longer. He’d have to fudge it with his boss, keep him thinking everything was going smoothly. Widmer had demanded that Lowe get the tapes and notes from Marienthal—which had triggered Lowe’s not very subtle suggestion to Marienthal that he turn them over in advance of the hearings.

His stomach knotted as he drove back to Capitol Hill.

“How’s Vinny?” Bret Mullin was asked as he entered the detectives’ bullpen.

“Okay. He’ll be okay. Gimpy for a while. Any luck in finding the shooter?”

“No, but we’ve got a description from witnesses. An APB went out this morning.”

“Good.”

After phone messages—none worth answering, he decided—Mullin went to Phil Leshin’s office, where his superior was being briefed on serious crimes that had been committed overnight. Mullin waited outside until the briefing officers left.

“What’s up?” Leshin asked.

“I’ve got the name of the guy from Union Station.”

“What guy?”

“The one who knew Louis Russo’s name.”

“Bret, I told you to drop it.”

“I did drop it, Phil,” Mullin said, taking a chair across the desk. “It was dumped in my lap.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. The woman who came from Tel Aviv to claim the body—Sasha Levine—she told me who it was. His name’s Richard Marienthal. He’s a writer who was working on a book with Russo.”

“A book? What kind of book?”

Mullin shrugged. “I didn’t get into that with her. But I know who he is, where he lives. I think we ought to bring him in as a material witness.”

Leshin muttered something under his breath and ran a hand over his shaved head. He said to Mullin, “Do I speak in some foreign tongue, Bret? Did you not understand me when I said to drop it? The Russo case is closed. Officially closed.”