Murder at Union Station (22 page)

Now she sat in a spartan office at a police headquarters in Washington, D.C., with a heavyset detective. It was a few minutes after six. While awaiting her arrival, he’d debated slipping out to a nearby bar for a couple of quick ones, but thought better of it. Now he wished he had. The urge was becoming acute.

“You have a nice trip here?” Mullin asked.

“The flight? Yes. But there is no smoking on the plane. May I smoke here?”

“Afraid not. The rules.”

“Yes, the rules. Always the rules. The flight was all right. The reason for it? No.”

“Yeah, sure. I can understand that. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re, ah—you’re Jewish, right? An Israeli, I mean.”

She smiled.
You’re a good-looking woman,
Mullin thought.
The old mafioso had good taste.
Large breasts pressed against the fabric of a purple silk blouse; her crossed legs were shapely beneath a short tan skirt.

“I’m Hungarian,” she said. “My parents were Jewish.”

He nodded. “I see,” he said. “Well, so you’re here to claim Mr. Russo’s remains.”

“Yes. We were not married, you know.”

“Yeah, that’s right. I know that. But no other family member has stepped forth to claim him. I guess that means you.”

“Is it all right if I ask you something, Detective?”

“The name’s Bret. Sure. Go ahead.”

“I am told you found the man who shot Louis.”

“That’s right. I mean, we didn’t exactly find him. Alive, that is. Somebody shot him.”

She shook her head. “Everybody shooting everybody. It’s like in Israel. Bombs, always bombs. People killing people.”

“Yeah. I know. Too much a that. I don’t want to offend or anything, Ms. Levine—I mean, considering your loss and all—but there’s some questions I’d like to ask you.”

“About Louis.”

“Yeah. About Louis. I don’t know how much you know about him, but—”

“That he was a criminal in the United States before he came to Israel under your witness program? I know that.”

Mullin started to say something, but she continued.

“I know that he killed people for the Mafia. I know that he did many bad things here. I wish he hadn’t, but that was all before I met him. I knew a good man, not a murderer.”

Mullin felt uncomfortable. It was hot in the room despite the air-conditioning. His collar seemed to have shrunk around his neck. And he wanted a drink, a quiet one in a quiet, cool bar.

“Do you know why he came to Washington?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To meet with Richard.”

“Who’s Richard?”

“Richard Marienthal. It doesn’t matter. Louis was working with him on a book about his life. That was all.”

“This writer. He’s from D.C.?”

Her reply was to take a Kleenex from her purse and blow her nose. “Excuse me,” she said.

“That’s okay. You see, Sasha, even though the guy who shot Louis is dead, and we know for certain that it was him who did it, the case is still open. Who is the guy who shot Louis’s murderer? How come he did—shoot Louis’s murderer? If we know why your, uh—not your husband but your friend—came all the way from Israel to Washington, that might help us get to the bottom of things and wrap it up.”

“I understand, Detective, and I would like to help you. You seem very nice. I appreciate your courtesy. When may I take Louis home for burial?”

“That’s not up to me. The M.E. makes that decision. And my bosses, the D.A. Pretty soon, though. I mean, there’s no reason to keep him anymore.” He ran his finger around his collar. “I suppose you’re unhappy about the delay. I mean, being Jewish and all, you like to bury the dead right away.”

“That’s right,” she said. “But Louis wasn’t Jewish. He was Italian.”

“Yeah, I know. I guess that makes a difference. You, ah—you have a place to stay here in D.C.?”

“A hotel.” She consulted a slip of paper from her purse. “The Lincoln Suites. On L Street.” She smiled and returned the paper to her purse. “You name the streets with letters,” she said. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the way they planned it. Nice place, the Lincoln. That’s what I hear. I never been there. Not too expensive, either. You checked in yet?”

“No. I came directly here from the airport.”

“Tell you what, Miss Levine. I’ll drive you over to the hotel. You get checked in, and I’ll buy you dinner. How’s that sound?”

“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

He stood and waved his hand. “No problem. It’ll be my pleasure.”

They went to Zola, named after the novelist Emile Zola and next to the International Spy Museum, where Mullin knew the bartender. They sat at the bar. Sasha ordered a white Zinfandel, Mullin bourbon on the rocks. She chain-smoked; he chain-drank.

“Here’s to meeting you,” he said, holding his second glass up to hers but withdrawing it quickly to avoid having her see that his hand shook. “Wish it was under better circumstances.”

He sipped his drink slower than he would have had he been alone, but finished it and ordered a third. Fortified, he relaxed and conversation flowed freely—her life in Hungary and Israel, his take on Washington and its problems. “Damn politicians,” he said. “Could be a nice place if it wasn’t for the politicians. The whole country’s screwed up ’cause of them.”

They eventually gravitated to a black and red velvet booth in one of the restaurant’s small, dark rooms, its walls covered with visuals to carry out the spy theme—shredded CIA documents, Plexiglas cases containing stills and posters from famous espionage movies, photographs of the nation’s most infamous spymasters. It was grilled tuna and a salad for her, corn with bacon chowder and roast chicken for him.

“So,” he said over coffee, “you know anybody here in D.C.?”

“Yes.”

“This writer who was doing a book on Louis’s life?”

She nodded and yawned. “I’m sorry, but I am sleepy. The flight was so long and . . .”

“Hey, I understand. I’ll get a check.” He waved for their waiter, dressed entirely in black.

He pulled up in front of her hotel. “I really enjoyed tonight,” she said. “Thank you very much. You’re a kind man.”

“Yeah, well, not all cops are bad. It isn’t all like you read these days. I appreciate you not smoking in the car.”

“It is not a problem.”

“You have plans for tomorrow?”

“No. I have to call Richard and—”

“This writer?”

“Yes.”

“What’s he like, this writer?”

“He’s very nice.”

“An old guy?”

“Pardon?”

“Just wondered whether he’s an old guy. Maybe I know him. Maybe I read stuff he wrote. I read a lot.”

“No,” she laughed. “He’s quite young. I really must go inside. I don’t want to fall asleep on you here in the car.”

“Sure, I understand.”

“Good night, Detective.”

“It’s Bret, huh? Look, I’ll call you tomorrow? Maybe if you’re not doing anything tomorrow night, we could have dinner again.”

“I—perhaps. Thank you again, Bret.”

He watched her enter the hotel, sat for a minute, then went to a bar near his apartment and had a few more drinks before calling it a night. His last act before going to bed—and after feeding Magnum and downing one final drink—was to write down the name she’d mentioned, misspelling it Richard Mariontholl. He’d check this guy out in the morning.

And he’d be sure to call her about dinner.

TWENTY-EIGHT

T
hat same evening, Mac and Annabel Smith returned to a phone ringing in their Watergate apartment after having enjoyed dinner out. Annabel picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Annabel? It’s Frank Marienthal in New York.”

“Hello, Frank. Your timing is good. We just walked in.”

“Glad I still have good timing,” he said pleasantly. “I seem to be losing other things.”

“Join the club,” said Annabel. “You’re looking for Mac, I assume.”

“If he’s available.”

She held her palm over the mouthpiece.

“I’ll take it in my office,” Mac said, heading there. “I’ve been meaning to call you, Frank,” he said after settling in his chair and picking up the phone. “How are you?”

“Quite well, Mac, although Mary has been having problems. But that’s not why I called. I wanted to talk to you about Richard.”

“We had Richard and his lady friend, Kathryn, to dinner recently.”

“I know. He was here that afternoon and told me he’d be seeing you. Did he discuss his book with you?”

“Barely. I asked him a lot of questions, but he seemed reluctant to get into it.” Smith laughed. “I told Annabel I didn’t know many writers who didn’t want to talk about their books.”

“I’m concerned, Mac. You know about that murder at Union Station.”

“Yes, I do.”

“And that his killer has also been found dead.”

“I heard that, too, just recently. What does Rich say about it?”

“Nothing. I haven’t spoken to him since he was here. I’ve been calling but keep getting his infernal machine. He hasn’t returned my calls. That’s not surprising. We don’t always see eye to eye. But Mary’s left a message, too. You’d think he’d at least return a call to his own mother.”

Annabel brought Mac a cup of tea; he nodded his appreciation. He was glad for the distraction. Frank Marienthal’s anger about Rich’s apparent lack of responsiveness was escalating.

Smith said, “Frank, I know that Rich’s book is based upon this Louis Russo’s life with the Mafia. The question is, What does Russo’s murder mean to Rich, not necessarily in regard to his book, but personally?” He paused before asking, “Do you think Rich’s life might be in jeopardy?”

“Don’t you?”

“I don’t know. It crossed my mind, of course, but I’m afraid I haven’t given it much thought. Based upon your call, maybe I should—give it more thought. You obviously have.”

“Let me level with you, Mac. You know that Rich’s book is being published by Hobbes House.”

“Of course. I reviewed the contract.”

“I’ve been doing some research on Hobbes House. It’s a conservative publisher, a willing extension of right-wing causes.”

“And not reticent about it.”

“It doesn’t publish novels.”

“Rich told us his will be their first.”

The elder Marienthal said, “Hobbes House has put Rich’s book up on its Web site. I’ve been checking it every day. It showed up today for the first time.”

“And?”

“It doesn’t list it as a novel. It doesn’t indicate anything about whether it’s fiction or nonfiction. All it has is the cover and this descriptive line: ‘A startling, explosive exposé of murder in the highest of places.’”

Smith grunted.

“Have you seen the manuscript, Mac?”

“No. I chalked it up to some sort of writer’s paranoia. You know, don’t let anyone see a work in progress, bad luck, that sort of thing. Have you seen it?”

“No. If Russo was killed because he turned on his fellow mobsters, they made sure anything else he knew about them was dead along with him. But that doesn’t mean Rich didn’t learn things from Russo. They might want to shut him up, too.”

“I’m not sure I agree with you, Frank. Russo spilled what he knew ten or twelve years ago. If the mob did kill him, it was strictly to get even for his having turned on them.”

“But what if it wasn’t the mob that killed Russo? And there’s this murder of Russo’s assailant. Who killed him, and why?”

“Look, Frank, I understand your concern. I’d be worried, too. I’ll try and get hold of Rich. When and if I do, I’ll let you know. Maybe between us we can get him to sit down and think things out.”

“I can’t ask more than that. I’ll come down at a moment’s notice.”

“You’ll hear from me.”

Smith hung up and dialed Rich Marienthal’s number. The machine answered.

“This is Mac Smith, Rich. It’s important that I speak with you. Please call at your earliest convenience.” He left his number and ended the call.

“A problem?” Annabel asked when Mac joined her on their terrace.

He recounted the conversation.

“Rich hasn’t returned any of their calls?” she said.

“According to Frank.”

“That is worrisome,” she said. “Maybe we should go over to their apartment.”

“I thought about doing that, but I’m not sure it’s appropriate. Rich is an adult. I got the impression from Frank that their relationship might not be all it should be.”

“Still,” Annabel offered, “something could be terribly wrong.”

Mac took a minute to think about it. Chances were that everything was just fine with Richard Marienthal and his good-looking girlfriend, Kathryn Jalick. To go banging on their door might be viewed as an unwarranted intrusion into their lives. Still . . .