Murder at Union Station (35 page)

Marienthal’s eyes rolled up into his head.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know she’s a loony, off the wall, but her books make all the best-seller lists. There’s Bill O’Reilly. Hannity.”

“Geoff,” Marienthal said, “you’re dredging up the wrong examples. I’m not a conservative. I don’t like those people. I’ve been a liberal all my life.”

“I’m willing to forgive that,” Lowe said with a deep chuckle. “It doesn’t matter what
you
are, Rich. Like I said, all you’re doing in this case is being a good journalist.”

“I’ll have to think about it,” Marienthal said.

“You do that. In the meantime, come up with a nonfiction proposal I can send to Sam Greenleaf. No obligation. You can dismiss whatever comes of it. But at least it will give you an idea of what the market will bear. You have an agent?”

“No.”

“Great, then I’ll be your agent, at least with Hobbes House. No commission. The truth is, Rich, I really like you—despite your being a liberal. I think we have a lot in common. I’d like to be helpful, that’s all.”

Lowe paid for lunch and they parted ways. A week later he called with an offer from Hobbes House. It was structured in such a way that the advance would go up as certain events fell into place, with the largest increase occurring when and if Louis Russo agreed to testify before the Widmer-chaired committee. The contract and all the other information released about the project would say it was to be a novel, a work of fiction, in order to preserve secrecy about its real form until it was time for the book to be published.

Marienthal discussed it with Kathryn.

“I’m thrilled for you,” she told him, “but what about the political fallout? This will be devastating to President Parmele. You don’t want to do anything to hurt him, do you?”

“That’s not my concern,” he replied.

“But what if what Russo says isn’t true?”

“That’s not my problem, either. Geoff says I’m just a journalist reporting on an eyewitness to history. Think of what happened when journalists had their say at book length with Nixon, with Clinton, with Kissinger and all. Think of the journalistic reputations and money made with such books. Geoff is right. I think I really lucked out meeting him, Kathryn. He’s a terrific guy, a top aide to Senator Widmer. He got me the offer from Hobbes House and he doesn’t want a cent for doing it. I’m telling you, this is the break I’ve been waiting for my whole life.”

She realized her arguing was fruitless and not very supportive to boot. She kissed him, and they celebrated with an expensive dinner at Bistro Bis in the Hotel George, where they drank too much wine and fell into bed intending to make love, but too fatigued and elated to summon the energy.

Thinking back to that evening as he sat in Winard Jackson’s kitchen, the soft sounds of
Just Friends
in the background, he realized that evening had been celebratory in every sense of the word. He had his first book contract, and judging from the enthusiasm of the publisher and his editor, Sam Greenleaf, it had best seller written all over it. The struggle was over.

But on this morning, months later in a friend’s basement apartment, his mood was hardly one of celebration. He’d been so blinded by ambition that he hadn’t taken a moment to step back and see what was really going on, the use he was being put to, the manipulation of him by others with their own self-serving agendas. Kathryn had seen it. His father had seen it. The only one who hadn’t seen it was Richard Marienthal, and he was too wrapped up in his pursuit of glory and money to listen to them.

Louis Russo had been murdered because of him. He squeezed his eyes shut tight against that painful truth. The old mafioso had killed men in his criminal career, but didn’t deserve to be gunned down to help sell a book—and maybe bring down a president in the bargain.

Had Russo told the truth when he claimed to have assassinated the Chilean dictator at the behest of the CIA, on orders from its chief, Adam Parmele? It didn’t seem to matter anymore whether Russo had lied or not. His story was between the covers of a book, to be read and judged by all those who plunked down their money in bookstores or online.

His mind cleared in synchronization with the increasing brightness outside. His options narrowed to one, it seemed. The book would make its way without his help. There would be no public appearances, no signings, no interviews in which he’d have to justify what he’d written. And there would be no hearings, certainly not involving him. The tapes were his and would remain his. One day, maybe, he’d destroy them.

He looked into the living room where the large canvas shoulder bag containing the tapes and other research materials rested against a chair. Trash them now, he told himself. Burn them, or go out and find a Dumpster. Pull the tapes from their cassette cases and cut them into strips, make confetti of them. Find a big magnet and run it over them, scrambling Russo’s words, true or false.

But the clarity that had made a temporary stop in the kitchen was obscured again by uncertainty. He couldn’t destroy what he’d worked so hard to possess. He stood, feeling very old as he did, and walked slowly into the cramped room that would be his bedroom, at least for that day. Fully clothed, he fell on the bed, drew a deep breath, closed his eyes, and was asleep within seconds.

THIRTY-SEVEN

M
ullin’s head had fallen forward to his chest when a sharp tap on his window snapped him to consciousness. He looked up into the face of a uniformed police officer and rolled down the window, allowing wind-driven rain to splash against his face.

“You sick or something?” the cop asked.

“Sick? Nah.”

“Then move it. This is a no-parking zone.”

Mullin reached into his jacket pocket. The cop touched his holster, but Mullin quickly produced his shield.

“You on assignment?” the cop asked.

“Yeah. Thanks for stopping by.”

The officer had no sooner walked away than Mullin saw Stripling pull up on the opposite side of the street, half a block down from the hotel. Stripling locked the car, ran down the street, and entered the hotel. Mullin looked around the interior of his vehicle. Why was there never an umbrella when you needed one? There were half a dozen back in the apartment. He spotted a beat-up NY Yankees baseball cap on the backseat, twisted with difficulty to grab it, slammed it on his head, and went to Stripling’s car. He looked up and down the street before trying the front passenger door. Locked. He leaned close to the tinted windows and attempted to see inside, but saw only indistinguishable images. Concerned that Stripling and Sasha might leave the hotel and come to the car, he retreated to his own vehicle. He wished he’d picked up a newspaper or magazine, something to kill the time. He hadn’t read a book in years.

He tuned the radio to all-news WTOP, where an announcer intoned that the stormy weather was expected to end by late afternoon, with another heat wave to push its way into the area the next day. Commercials followed. Then the day’s top stories were repeated.

“This is Dave Stewart with an update on the breaking story involving the Mafia’s alleged role in the assassination more than twenty years ago of Chilean dictator Constantine Eliana. A soon-to-be-published book by Washington writer Richard Marienthal claims that the assassination in 1985 was carried out under a contract given a New York Mafia family by the Central Intelligence Agency. The allegation comes from Louis Russo, the Mafia member who claims to have pulled the trigger in that assassination, and who himself was murdered in Union Station only days ago. Russo, who had traveled here to Washington from Israel, where he’d been living under the federal witness protection program, was to have testified at a hearing conducted by Alaska Senator Karl Widmer into the intelligence agency’s possible role in the assassination. It’s further alleged in the book that President Adam Parmele, then head of the CIA, had personally approved of the assassination. Attempts to reach Marienthal through his publisher and other sources have been unsuccessful. There has been no statement from the White House. A statement issued by Senator Widmer’s press secretary says only that such hearings have been planned and that they will go forward despite Russo’s death. Tapes of him recounting the story will be available, according to the statement. Stay tuned for further updates as we receive them.”

Mullin spent the next forty-five minutes mulling over what he’d heard. The official MPD finding—that Russo had been murdered by organized crime in retaliation for his testimony against them—made less sense than ever to the veteran detective. Had it happened somewhere else—Mexico, Israel, New York, or Los Angeles—he might have bought it. If it had been a revenge killing, why would they have waited until Russo had reached the place where he was scheduled to tell all? And why would the mob draw attention to itself at this stage, and after all these years, by rubbing out a dying turncoat? Mobsters weren’t the brightest bulbs in the drawer, but they did have a pretty good sense of self-preservation despite the decimation of the Mafia leadership.

The Parmele administration had the most to lose had Russo lived and gone before the committee. That was obvious. But the contemplation that someone in that administration might have had something to do with Russo’s murder was too difficult to accept, even for the terminally cynical Bret Mullin.

Sasha had mentioned at dinner that Russo had been working with this writer guy Marienthal on a book. Now, thanks to WTOP, Mullin knew what the book was about. Even ruling out the mob, whoever killed Russo might have Marienthal in his crosshairs, too. As far as Mullin knew, Marienthal was the only one who could corroborate what Russo had said. Tapes? Did Marienthal have them? Or had he already turned them over to Senator Widmer for use at his hearings?

Who’d killed the Haitian, Leon LeClaire, Russo’s assassin? Probably the same people who’d hired him as shooter. Eliminating a shooter to ensure his silence was SOP in criminal circles.

These thoughts came and went as Mullin drank cold coffee and nibbled the last doughnut, which was rapidly growing soggy in the humid air. Distracted by his thoughts, he looked across to the hotel to check that Stripling’s car was still parked at the curb. It was. Stripling and Sasha were obviously having breakfast.

Ten minutes later, Stripling came out and stood beneath an overhang, casually taking in the street and the passersby. Eventually he looked up at the gray sky, held a newspaper over his head, and went to his car, got in, and drove away. Mullin started his engine, made an illegal U-turn, and fell in behind.

He didn’t know why he was following Stripling, a.k.a. Charlie Simmons, or whatever other names he used. He just knew he had to. Who was this guy? What connection did he have with Russo and LeClaire and Widmer? He wasn’t who he represented himself to be to Sasha. Why? Was the break-in of her apartment in Tel Aviv connected in some way?

Stripling drove slowly, which made it easy for Mullin to keep pace. He eventually found a parking space on Tenth Street and walked quickly to the corner of Constitution. He entered the Department of Justice Building. He came out minutes later, got in his car, and drove to E Street, between Ninth and Tenth Streets, parked in a garage, came back on to the street and disappeared inside the J. Edgar Hoover Building, home to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

“He’s Bureau?” Mullin asked aloud in the confines of his car. “He’s official, somehow.”

Why would the Bureau be involved? The Russo and LeClaire killings had been handled as local matters, with the MPD investigating. Of course, he reasoned, seeing Stripling enter the FBI building didn’t necessarily mean he was an employee. But he was obviously working for somebody interested in the cases. His computer file didn’t indicate that he held a private investigator’s license.

He’d claimed to Sasha that he was an old friend of Richard Marienthal. Mullin had seen him leaving Marienthal’s apartment building, but he obviously hadn’t been with the writer. No one was home; Mullin’s attempt through the superintendent verified that.

He dialed the number for the Lincoln Suites Hotel on his cell phone and was connected with Sasha Levine’s room.

“Hi. It’s Detective Bret Mullin.”

He couldn’t see her smile at his adding his title. She knew who he was without it. “Hello,” she said.

“How was your breakfast?” he asked.

“It was fine.”

He sensed a reservation in her answer. “You don’t sound too sure,” he said.