Murder at Union Station (43 page)

He wasn’t sure what his next step should be. He had no way of knowing how many people might be with Marienthal inside the building, and was reluctant to attempt to confront the writer there. Marienthal was going to New York—which meant he’d be coming out, hopefully soon. Better to wait for that to happen, and trust he’d be alone. He pressed his elbow against the Smith & Wesson in its holster beneath his arm, comforted by its presence, although confident he wouldn’t have to use it. Marienthal was a writer, probably effete, lightweight—a lover, not a fighter. The worst that could happen was that he’d have to display the gun to show Marienthal that he meant business. “Don’t be stupid, kid. Just give me the tapes and go write a poem somewhere.”

A taxi arrived. Stripling slid lower in the seat, but not so low that he couldn’t see the attractive young woman in a short skirt and wearing large glasses get out of the cab, pay the fare, and go to the building’s front door.

A second cab came around the corner and pulled up to the curb a half block from the first. A short, stocky young man wearing a suit got out and leaned through the open front passenger window. Stripling couldn’t hear the words, but it was obvious the passenger wasn’t flattering the driver. He shoved his hand in the window and backed away; both cabs drove off.

The woman with glasses read names on the intercom panel, pressed a button, and spoke into the panel. There was the faint sound of a buzzer; she pushed open the door and disappeared inside.

Stripling returned his attention to the short, stocky guy standing on the sidewalk. He’d moved behind a tree, shielding him from view of the door through which the woman had entered.

Who’s he?
he wondered.
Who’s she?
Must be Marienthal’s live-in girlfriend. Nice legs. She could do better than get involved with a writer. With so many more single women than single men in D.C., women must get desperate, he reasoned, more or less.

What’s the stocky guy going to do, just keep standing there behind the tree? Is he waiting for the writer, too, or has he got the hots for the leggy gal with the big glasses? Was he the writer’s buddy? That could complicate things.

Nothing to do but wait.

FORTY-TWO

I
t is so good to see you,” Marienthal said when Kathryn walked through the door to the apartment. They sustained their embrace and kissed until Marienthal stepped back, his hands on her shoulders, and smiled. “You look so sexy in those glasses.”

“Stop it,” she said. “I sure don’t feel sexy. But I am relieved to see you. We’re going to New York?”

“Not
us
. I’m going.”

She looked at him quizzically.

He led her into the small kitchen, where they sat at the table. He took her hands in his and said, “I owe you a big apology, Kate.”

“For what?”

“For being blind to reality. For being greedy. For forgetting who I really am.”

She wiped away a tear that had escaped her right eye and smiled. “You were all of those things, Rich, and maybe more. But that’s past tense.”

“You bet it is. Here’s what I want to do.”

It took him only five minutes to outline his plans for her. When he was finished, he asked, “Make sense?”

“I think so,” she said.

“Good. Let’s get going.”

He went to a small corkboard on which Winard had pinned up a typewritten list of useful phone numbers, dialed the one for a local cab company, and gave the dispatcher the address.

Five minutes later, he picked up his canvas shoulder bag from the floor, opened the front door, and locked it behind them, and they went up the narrow stairs to the front foyer. Marienthal looked through a small window. “The cab’s here,” he said.

They went directly to the taxi. Marienthal tapped on the front passenger window. The driver lowered it slightly, and Marienthal said in a loud voice, “Union Station.”

Stripling and Lowe watched the departure of Rich and Kathryn from their respective vantage points. Stripling started his engine and fell in behind the cab. Lowe left the tree and stood helplessly on the sidewalk. He’d heard Marienthal say, “Union Station,” but was without transportation.

Marienthal looked back before the cab turned the corner.

“Did you see that guy?” he asked Kathryn.

“What guy?”

“Up the block from the house. It looked like Geoff.”

She, too, looked back, but by then they were off 16th Street. “Are you sure?” she asked.

“No, but I think it was.”

Lowe walked south on 16th until finding a cab. “Union Station,” he said. “I’m in a rush.”

The driver laughed without mirth. “You guys slay me,” he said. “You got to catch a train? Leave earlier! I’m not getting a ticket because you don’t leave early enough.” He repeated: “Slays me.”

It just might,
thought Lowe.

Stripling pulled into a vacant one-hour parking spot near the station, jumped out of the car, and shoved quarters into the meter. Hopefully, he’d be back before the hour was up. If not, Roper could pay for the ticket and tow charges. He ran across the plaza and reached the main entrance just as Marienthal had finished paying their driver and he and Kathryn headed inside. Told Marienthal planned to travel to New York, Stripling assumed the couple would go to one of Amtrak’s booths, which they did. Marienthal and Kathryn stood in a short line in front of the ticket counter and checked the departure board. The next train to New York was scheduled to leave in fifteen minutes. Stripling fell in behind them, his attention focused on the canvas shoulder bag Marienthal carried.

What now?
Should he make a grab for the bag and run? Not a good idea. Too many people, including plenty of security guards patrolling the area. Besides, it wasn’t his MO to play purse snatcher. His best bet, he decided, was to stay close and pick a moment when there were fewer people. He was certain the girlfriend wouldn’t pose a problem, although you never knew about people. People like him. He’d been mistaken over the years for a bank clerk, an insurance salesman, and worse. He liked it that way, the faceless face in the crowd, that nondescript guy in the drab suit who was probably married to a domineering woman, a milquetoast of the first order.

He couldn’t hear the transaction between Marienthal and the ticket agent, but when it was completed, Marienthal backed away from the counter and stepped on Stripling’s foot.

“Sorry,” said Marienthal.

“It’s okay,” said Stripling.

“Sir?” the agent said to Stripling.

“What? Oh, right. Round-trip to New York.”

As he waited for the ticket to be issued, he kept his eye on Marienthal and Kathryn, who were walking in the direction of Amtrak’s departure gates. He followed, keeping a respectful distance, until they stopped short of the gate. Marienthal reached in the pocket of his safari jacket and handed Kathryn something small, which she slipped into her purse. After a final embrace, Marienthal headed for the waiting train, leaving Kathryn standing there. Had Marienthal handed the shoulder bag to her, Stripling would have been faced with a dilemma. But he hadn’t.

He followed Marienthal to the train and boarded the same car. When the writer chose a seat, he took the one directly behind him.

Marienthal had laid his canvas bag on the seat next to him; Stripling could see it through the space between seats. He tried to come up with some ruse to cause Marienthal to get up from his seat, leaving the bag behind, but couldn’t conjure anything that made sense. He didn’t have much time to consider it because the doors to the train closed and an announcement was made that the train to New York was now leaving.

Geoff Lowe looked like a man who’d just escaped a mugging. He was drenched with sweat, his white shirt pulled loose from his pants, his hair drooping over his ears in wet strands. He stood in the station’s main hall. He went in the direction of the Amtrak ticket counter, passing President Cigars and the Swatch Watch shop, muttering under his breath and trying not to bump into the steady flow of people coming in both directions. He circumvented the ticket counter and turned left in front of Exclusive Shoe Shine.

“Shine, sir?” Joe Jenks asked.

Lowe ignored him and kept walking, causing Jenks to say to one of the other bootblacks, “Looks like the man needs a shower more than a shine.”

Lowe had almost reached the gates when he spotted Kathryn Jalick coming from a public phone booth near the bank of public lockers. She carried a shopping bag she’d bought from the travel store near where she and Rich had parted.

He moved quickly to cut her off.

“Geoff?” she said, startled at his sudden appearance.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“Rich? He’s—he’s on his way to New York.”

“New York? Why’s he going there?”

“I—”

“Is he going to Hobbes House?”

“I don’t know.”

“He has the tapes with him?”

“I’m sorry, Geoff, but I’m late for an appointment,” she said, walking away.

He stayed at her side. “He has the tapes. Right?”

“Yes. He has the tapes,” she responded, picking up her pace in the direction of the Main Hall and Massachusetts Avenue.

He grabbed her arm. “Kathryn,” he said, “don’t play games with me. I want those tapes. I
need
those tapes.”

“Get your hands off me,” she snapped, shaking him loose and continuing to walk.

He kept stride with her. “Rich wouldn’t have his book contract if it hadn’t been for me,” he said. “I set it up for him. He owes me!”

They reached Mass Avenue, where a dozen cabs awaited passengers. The dispatcher opened the door to the first taxi in line and Kathryn jumped in. So did Lowe.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked.

“I’m sticking with you, Kathryn. You’ll be in touch with Rich. He has the tapes. I want them. I’m hanging in with you until I get them.”

The cabdriver, tired of the delay, turned and asked, “You want a taxi or a marriage counselor?”

Kathryn’s nostrils flared as she glared at Lowe. “The Watergate Apartments,” she told the driver through clenched teeth.

The train hadn’t gone far when Stripling’s cell phone sounded.

“Yeah?”

“Subject’s female partner reported en route to Watergate apartment.” The terse message ended with a sharp click.