Murder at Union Station (30 page)

She’d heard from Tim earlier in the evening. Stripling had called from home, sated with Crab Louis and hot fudge.

“I have something wonderful for you,” he’d said, “which means you’ll owe me one.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said.

“Pad and pencil at the ready?”

“Shoot.”

“All right. Here’s what’s gone down, Joyce, and you can take it to the bank. The old gentleman, Louis Russo, came to our fair city to testify at a hearing being chaired by that charming Alaska senator, Karl Widmer.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“As sure as I’d propose to you if you didn’t have Mr. Right already panting for your body.”

“Cute.”

“That I am. Okay. Mr. Russo comes to D.C. to testify at the hearing and gets his brains blown out when he gets off the train. Next, his assailant—a gentle term for his murderer—gets chopped down among the lilies.”

“I already know this.”

“But you don’t know what Mr. Russo was testifying about.”

He could sense her anxious anticipation. He paused for effect before continuing. “Mr. Russo, who seems to have a penchant for spilling his guts to the wrong people, collaborated on a book with a writer from right here in the nation’s capital, a Mr. Richard Marienthal.”

“And this Marienthal is the guy who blurted out Russo’s name to me at the station?”

“One and the same, according to my sources.”

“Which are impeccable.”

“Of course. Ready for the bombshell?”

“Stop playing games, Tim. What is it?”

“According to Mr. Russo’s account in this book by Marienthal, he—I stress
he
—was the gentleman who assassinated one Constantine Eliana. Ring a bell?”

“Jesus.”

“No, the Romans killed
him
. Russo killed Constantine Eliana.”

“Some time back. He was going to testify to this at the Widmer hearings?”

“You’re quick and bright.”

“Thank you.”

“Sure you want to marry this medical student? He’ll be off delivering babies every night while you sit home wondering what was ever appealing about the jerk.”

“The jerk’s name is Michael.”

“What’s his number? I’ll straighten him out.”

“He’s bigger than you are. Come on, Tim. I don’t have all summer.”

“Know what Russo claims?”

“Tell me.”

“That his New York family—the crime side of it—got the contract.”

“And Mr. Russo pulled the trigger.”

“This future M.D., with an HMO license to steal, doesn’t deserve you, Joyce.”

“Russo says he pulled the trigger? On whose say-so?”

“On orders from no one other than Adam Parmele, currently president of the United States, then director of the Central Intelligence Agency.”

“Wow!”

“You sound positively orgasmic, Joyce. Then again, getting the big story is always better than sex for you real newshounds, isn’t it? Does your intended know that?”

“I’ll see if I can go with this tonight without corroboration,” she said, deliberately ignoring him as she counted off what she’d need. “Unless I can get a statement from Widmer’s people or from the White House.”

“Want my advice?” Stripling said.

“Probably not, but go ahead.”

“Run with it, Joyce. You wait for statements from Widmer and Parmele, you’ll get scooped. I’m giving you this exclusively. Trust me.”

He ended the call and reflected on what he’d told her. It wasn’t exactly true that he’d given the information only to her. He hadn’t spoken to any other members of the press, but he had shared it with the two FBI agents with whom he’d been meeting, laid out for them everything he’d learned from Detective Fred Peck and Senate staffer Jimmy Gale.

His four o’clock meeting with the agents, to whom he’d now mentally assigned the nicknames Curly and Moe, had been like the other meetings he’d suffered through with them. A couple of Bureau losers, he’d decided, who’d pass along what they’d learned to other inept higher-ups who’d analyze it to death and undoubtedly come to the wrong conclusion. That wasn’t his problem. He’d earned his money, pulled in markers owed him, and dutifully passed along all the dirt he could find. As far as he was concerned, job over.

Until . . . he received a call early that evening from Mark Roper.

“Good evening, Timothy.”

“Hello.”

“I understand you’ve done a very good job, Tim.”

“According to who? Nuts and Bolts?”

“Pardon?”

“The two clowns I’ve been socializing with. We met this afternoon.”

“I know, I know. They say you’ve performed admirably.”

“I doubt if they put it that way. So what do I do now, return the cell phone they gave me?”

“No. You’re still employed.”

“I’ve been thinking, Mark, that I’d like to be retired.”

“Retirement is expensive, Timothy. Get in your car and take a pleasant drive over into Virginia.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes. There’s a woman who very much would like to spend an hour with you, enjoy a drink together, chat about life in general.”

“Are you fixing me up?”

“In a sense. You’ll ask for the Klaus reservation in the Grill at Clyde’s, Tysons Corner.”

“Funny name for a woman.”

“Last name.”

“Klaus? Klaus? Sounds familiar.” He snapped his fingers. “Gertrude!”

“Two hours, Timothy. Call me when you get home.”

“This is Joyce Rosenberg with a breaking story from Fox News. We’ve learned through exclusive sources that the murders of Louis Russo at Union Station and his assailant, Leon LeClaire, whose body was found a few days later in Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens, might be tied in some way to the upcoming Senate hearings into possible CIA complicity in the assassination seventeen years ago of Central American dictator Constantine Eliana. The Chilean strongman was gunned down during a state visit to Washington.”

File footage of the crime scene at Union Station, and of the aftermath of the assassination of Constantine Eliana, played behind Rosenberg. She continued.

“Fox has also learned that Russo, the Union Station victim who’d come here from Israel where he’d been living under the federal witness protection program after having turned evidence against Mafia leaders in New York, was to testify in person before the committee about his role in the assassination. Russo had collaborated on a book with Washington writer Richard Marienthal about his involvement in the assassination.”

The accompanying visual was of Senator Widmer walking the halls of Congress.

“According to highly placed sources exclusive to Fox News, Russo has claimed in the book that he pulled the trigger on orders from his crime family bosses, and that those same bosses had received the contract to kill Eliana from then CIA director Adam Parmele, now president of the United States.”

Parmele’s image came on the screen.

“According to our sources, the hearings will be conducted despite the loss of the key witness, Louis Russo, with the writer, Richard Marienthal, introducing taped interviews with the former Mafia boss. Attempts to reach someone at the White House or in Senator Widmer’s office were unsuccessful. I’m Joyce Rosenberg. More on this story as Fox News develops further information.”

Rich and Kathryn watched the Fox report on the TV in Marienthal’s suite at the River Inn.

They’d discussed the ransacking of the apartment—someone obviously after Rich’s tapes and notes—and speculated on who might have been behind it. Now there was no need to speculate on what people knew about the Widmer hearings and Louis Russo’s connection to those hearings. The whole District knew, thanks to the voracious cable TV channels, and the nation would shortly.

“Oh, my God,” Kathryn said, her eyes wide.

“It’s started,” Marienthal said to no one in particular, getting up from the couch and going to the kitchenette, where he refilled his glass with Coke from the fridge.

Kathryn followed him. “What are we going to do?” she asked.

“What are
we
going to do?” he said. “You’ve got to stay out of this, Kathryn.”

“How can I stay out of something I’m already knee-deep in?” she asked. “I’m here!”

He returned to the suite’s living room, pulled aside drapes on the window, and peered into the darkness. She came up behind and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Rich,” she said softly, “this has gotten out of hand. You’ve got to drop it, get rid of the tapes and notes, tell Geoff you’re not testifying, and wash your hands of the whole mess.”

He continued looking through the drapes without speaking. Finally he allowed the drapes to close again, turned, and embraced her. They stood that way for a minute before returning to the couch. Kathryn turned off the TV, looked at him, and said, “I love you, Rich. I hope you know that.”

He nodded. “What about the book?” he asked.

“You can’t stop that,” she said, “but you don’t have to be used the way Geoff and Senator Widmer are using you. You supported President Parmele when he ran. What Russo claimed will destroy him and his run for a second term.”

His jaw was rigid as he said, “You know how I felt about that, Kathryn. I’m a writer. It’s not my business to decide who gets second terms. I don’t care about politics. All I wanted was a good book, a best-selling book. Let the chips fall where they may.”

“I know that,” she said, carefully choosing her words to avoid stifling what promised to be a calm, reasoned, and useful conversation, the first they’d had in a while. She shifted on the couch so that she faced him. “Look,” she said, “I was a hundred percent behind you when you started the book.
The novel!
How could I not be? It all seemed so logical and right, learning how the Mafia works from an insider to give your novel authenticity. Your father represented him and paved the way for you to meet Russo. I remember how hard you worked to convince him to open up and tell the story. And I know the difficulties it caused with your father.” She paused, weighed her next words, and added, “It all made sense until Geoff Lowe came along.”

“Want a beer?” he asked.

“No.”

He pulled a can of beer from the refrigerator, returned to the living room, and took a club chair across the coffee table from her. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin propped on interlaced hands. On the table was a list of phone messages she’d taken from their answering machine and delivered to him at the hotel.

“Rich,” she said.

“What?”

“Get rid of the tapes.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“You know why. Russo’s dead. The tapes have him saying in his own voice that he assassinated Constantine Eliana and did it for his crime family under orders from Adam Parmele. The tapes are the only things I have to back up what’s in the book. Without them and without Russo, the book will be dismissed, debunked, chalked up to a writer’s imagination.”

“Then turn them over to the White House.”

He guffawed. “Tapes in the White House,” he said scornfully. “Tapes in the White House get erased or lost or burned.”

“And maybe they should be,” she said in a flat, judgmental tone.