Murder in Georgetown

by Margaret Truman

  Roseann lived on the ground floor of a neatly kept row house on upper Wisconsin Avenue, near the Washington Cathedral. A white baby grand piano occupied the center of the small living room. The floor was covered with worn red Oriental rugs. One wall was taken up by a long white leather couch. In front of it was a black lacquered coffee table on which a variety of oversize art and music books were neatly displayed. The white walls were filled with art, most of it modern, a few large posters from concert halls mixed in. A cello stood on a stand in a corner of the room. In another corner was a stack of electronic keyboards.

  “Nice,” Potamos said after she’d greeted him at the door wearing a white fluffy robe.

  “Thanks. I like it here. I’m comfortable. Excuse me, I have to finish dressing. I ran a little late.”

  She went into her bedroom. A fat white cat emerged, looked at Potamos, yawned, stretched, and curled up on a chair.

  Potamos sat at the piano and picked out “Heart and Soul.” Blackburn poked her head through the door and said, “Bravo.”

  Potamos laughed and said, “Then I wrote…”

  Five minutes later she came to the piano, sat down beside him on the bench, and said, “I’m ready whenever your concert is over.”

  “You look great,” Potamos said.

  “Thank you, sir. Just simple black with pearls.” She stood and adopted a model’s pose to show off her gray skirt and black cotton sweater.

  “I don’t see any pearls.”

  “I know—they’re in the vault along with the other heavy jewelry. Where are we going? I’m starved. I avoided the soggy canapés at the party in anticipation of this.”

  Later, after crepes at La Brasserie Breton (sausage and apple for him, caviar for her), and after satisfying what seemed like a desperate need to tell each other about themselves—she from an Ohio steelworker’s family; three sisters; solid middle-American upbringing; love of music since childhood; secret passion for macadamia nuts, maple-walnut gelato ice cream, and lapis jewelry; cat’s name Snowball; favorite classical composer Bach, jazz pianist Bill Evans, colors blue and white—she asked him how the murder investigation was progressing.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “The police know more than they’re admitting, but that’s routine.” He told her about his conversations with the students.

  “Fiamma sounds like a character,” she said.

  “Yeah, he does. I’ll get to meet him tonight if…” He looked into her green eyes. “If…”

  “If you don’t spend the night with me.”

  It was a sheepish grin. “That’s right.”

  “What’s your choice?”

  “I have one?”

  “There’s always a choice, Joe. That doesn’t mean you will sleep with me, but let’s say the option is open. What’ll it be, me or this Tony Fiamma?”

  He grimaced and shook his head. “That’s a tough one.”

  “If it’s that tough, your first option just dried up.”

  “I’ve made my decision.”

  “And?”

  “I’ve always been partial to fat white cats named Snowball. Let’s stop by my place first. I’ll introduce you to Jumper. She has to be walked if…”

  They walked Jumper together, returned to Potamos’s condo, and didn’t leave until morning.

  | Chapter Seven |

  Marshall Jenkins stood by a window in the large study on the third floor of his Georgetown home. Outside, a battery of powerful lights illuminated formal Japanese gardens. A video camera scanned relentlessly, its pictures monitored in a small downstairs room.

  He looked toward the door. Was someone in the hall? The room was dark except for a soft yellow light from the brass lamp on his desk, and ambient light through the windows.

  There was the sound again, then a shadow beneath the door. His wife, Elsa, entered.

  “What?” Jenkins said.

  “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes and wanted to see if you needed anything.”

  Jenkins leaned back against the windowsill, hands jammed into the pockets of a blue cashmere robe. “What do you think I could possibly need, Elsa, that you could provide me?”

  She ignored the temptation to respond angrily. It was the sort of comment to which she’d become accustomed in recent years. Earlier in the marriage she would have flared, her retort prompting an all-out shouting match resulting in her being drained of everything except guilt.

  She stood in the doorway and observed her husband of seven years. She’d celebrated her thirty-seventh birthday only two days ago; he was sixty-two. He no longer stood quite as erect as before; and his square face, tan until recently from sunlamps, had begun to sag and seemed to be graying, if that was possible with a face. He seemed… weary all the time. Yes, that was it, Elsa decided, her husband was weary. And so nasty. It was as though a sudden acceleration in the aging process were taking place, pages flying off the calendar as in an old movie, accompanied by a parallel irascibility that precluded all tenderness between them. Not that there had ever been an abundance of it. Marshall Jenkins was not a sentimental, sensitive man. Pragmatic was more like it, hard-nosed, steely eyed, touching the human dilemma by contributing heavily to favorite charities.

  To say that she’d “celebrated” her birthday was wishful thinking. Since their only child, Jacqueline, had died two years earlier from a sudden and virulent blood cancer, celebrations were a thing of the past. Dinner perhaps, a cake, a few friends, but nothing festive. It was “inappropriate,” Marshall had said, and that was that.

  The child had been conceived shortly before they were married, at least according to Elsa’s mathematics, but it wasn’t a matter of his having to marry her because of her pregnancy. Hardly. They’d fallen in love three months earlier, and Jenkins had proposed the first night they made love, which was three days after they’d met. She hadn’t accepted immediately, afraid that matching his impetuousness would somehow cause him to think less of her.

  She’d found it interesting that this multimillionaire had acted like a schoolboy, gushing out his proposal so quickly and with such urgency. His first and only wife, a society woman from the Maryland shore, had died in an auto accident ten years before Elsa met him. She knew he’d been romantically linked with many women following his wife’s death, and she took quiet pride in being the first one to excite him sufficiently to offer marriage. Obviously, Marshall Jenkins was not a man prone to reckless behavior. He did everything with meticulous precision. He’d built his empire that way, piece by piece, a step at a time, always looking ahead three or four moves like a master chess player. Breaking form with Elsa that night in a New York hotel delighted her, gave her the feeling that she possessed a feminine power greater than she’d ever realized. She had been born in Wiesbaden, Germany, but she and her mother had moved to Chicago after her father died, when she was four. She got her degree in economics from the University of Chicago, then went on to law school and a brief marriage to a sculptor. He committed suicide less than a year after they married. Why? That question had haunted her until one day she decided it would haunt her no longer. It hadn’t from that day forward. She was good at dictating to herself what she could allow her mind to do and not do.

  She’d met Jenkins in Munich. She was vacationing; he was visiting the manufacturer of heavy earthmoving equipment in which he had a considerable financial interest. It was Oktoberfest; he spotted her in a restaurant and, he told her later, was physically assaulted by her beauty: tall, slender, soft blond hair framing a serene oval face in which each feature was perfectly formed and positioned, eyes large and blue, mouth sensually full.

  She had been having dinner that night with an aunt. Jenkins brazenly introduced himself and was invited to join their table. Elsa’s aunt discreetly left them shortly after dinner. Two days later they traveled to New York on the same flight, had dinner, booked adjoining suites at the Plaza, and, an hour later, began their life together in her bed.

  There had been passion and love at first. But af
ter a couple of years both emotions evaporated and she found herself more a hostess and traveling companion than an object of sexual attention. She knew there were other women. She could sense it, feel it, smell it as surely as if there’d been lipstick on his collar and perfume on his clothing. She’d come to grips with that. The worst was knowing that he felt nothing toward her. Any feeling would have been welcome.

  “Where are you going?” he asked in a tired voice.

  “Kennedy Center. Rostropovitch is doing Bartok and Beethoven. I’ll have dinner after the performance.”

  “I won’t be here when you get back. I’m going to Leesburg tonight.” He owned a retreat just outside Leesburg, in northern Virginia’s Loudoun County, where he went to hunt and fish with friends.

  “How long will you be gone?” she asked.

  “A day or two.”

  “I’ve been thinking of going to New York to do some shopping. I might as well do it while you’re gone.”

  “Good.” He turned from her and looked out the window.

  “Goodnight, Marshall.”

  “Goodnight, Elsa.”

  Their driver, an older black man named Walker, opened a rear door of the pearl-gray Lincoln limousine he’d brought to the front of the house, and Elsa settled into the quiet, dark seclusion of the leather-and-wood passenger compartment. With her was her evening purse and an overnight bag she’d taken from the hall closet on her way out. Walker slid behind the wheel, electronically lowered the glass partition, and asked where she was going.

  “The Kennedy Center, please,” Elsa replied, pulling down a lighted mirror to check her hair and makeup.

  Ten minutes later the limo pulled up the ramp in front of the Kennedy Center. Walker opened the door and helped Elsa out of the car. “Shall I return for you?” he asked.

  “No, thank you, Walker, I’ll be going on from here with friends. They’ll drop me home.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Enjoy your evening.”

  As Walker pulled away from the curb, a new tan Toyota sat with its motor running a hundred feet away. Behind the wheel sat a handsome young man with black curly hair. He’d been parked on the Jenkinses’ street and had waited until Elsa came out. He’d followed the limo, but now he wasn’t sure what to do: Wait until she came from the concert, or go inside, buy a ticket and observe her? He ruled out the latter—there probably wasn’t a ticket to be had—and decided to get something to eat and be back before the concert ended. He jotted down something in a notebook, took a last look at the entrance to the center, and drove off.

  Elsa stepped into the grand foyer, 630 feet long and six stories high, ivory plaster walls alternating with floor-to-ceiling mirrored panels on one side, ten floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the terrace and the Potomac on the other. She was early; few people had arrived. She looked up at one of eighteen Swedish Orrefors crystal chandeliers that jutted down from the lofty ceiling like glowing stalactites. Beneath her feet were miles of crimson carpet. It was wearing poorly; sections were threadbare, others had bunched up. “Disgraceful,” she told herself as she walked to the base of the massive bronze head of John F. Kennedy sculptured by Robert Berks. It dominated the foyer, every cut of the chisel catching the thousands of lights hurled at it by the chandeliers.

  She strolled to the windows and looked out to the terrace where, in summer, theatergoers would spill out during intermission and gaze at the Potomac River, the tranquil mood broken only by the screeching approach of jet aircraft into National Airport.

  She checked her watch and crossed the lobby to where a young woman stood holding a supply of the evening’s programs. Elsa smiled, took one, then went outside to the curb where she’d been dropped off. A taxi pulled up and deposited a couple. Elsa got in. “The Watergate Hotel,” she told the driver.

  ***

  Marshall Jenkins interrupted a telephone conversation to be told over the intercom by Walker that he’d returned after dropping Mrs. Jenkins at the Kennedy Center. “Bring the BMW around front,” Jenkins told him. “I’ll drive myself to Leesburg.” He returned to his conversation with Senator John Frolich.

  “You’re going down tonight?” Frolich asked.

  “Yes, almost immediately. Elsa is at a concert. What time can you be in Leesburg Friday?”

  “I can be there by four, maybe five.”

  “Fine, we’ll have dinner. Goodnight, John.”

  Jenkins dressed in wrinkled chino pants, a red and blue flannel shirt, and hiking boots. He turned off the lamp and came downstairs to the security office, just off the foyer. “I’ll be in Leesburg through the weekend,” he told the security man on duty. “I don’t need anyone there.”

  “You’re sure, Mr. Jenkins?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” He grabbed his valise from where he’d left it earlier, went to the street, and replaced Walker behind the wheel of the silver BMW sedan.

  ***

  The cab carrying Elsa Jenkins wove its way to the Watergate Hotel’s private canopied entrance off Virginia Avenue. She tipped the driver generously, quickly entered the hotel, and went to the desk. She told the clerk she had a reservation.

  “Name, ma’am?”

  “Johnson, from Joel Associates.” She slid a platinum American Express card across the desk. Printed on it was Joel Associates. The clerk handed her a key. “Luggage?” he asked.

  “No, a business conference, of all things at this time of night,” she said. “I’ll need room service.”

  “Just dial, Ms. Johnson.”

  The suite was one of the hotel’s most lavish. She flipped on the lights, picked up the phone, and ordered caviar, smoked salmon, and a bottle of champagne. Then she opened the drapes and looked down at the glittering lights of Foggy Bottom and the Kennedy Center. She closed the drapes and hummed the Allegretto from Beethoven’s Symphony no. 7—which was on the program that night—as she pulled a sheer pink negligee from the large bag she’d brought with her and laid it on the king-size bed. She waited for room service to deliver, then hung her evening clothes in the closet, went into the spacious Italian marble bathroom, and drew water into the tub, emptying a package of the hotel’s complimentary scented bath oils beneath the faucet.

  Downstairs, in the Terrace Lounge, John Frolich quietly nursed his drink and checked his Rolex. He cocked his head to better hear the young pianist in a tuxedo play a familiar Ravel melody, then stood, left money on the table, and left the lounge. He was aware that people were talking about him, probably wondering why he’d be out drinking so soon after his daughter’s murder. The hell with them, he told himself as he crossed the lobby to a bank of elevators that served the upper-floor suites.

  Minutes later he knocked on a door, heard the latch being undone. The door opened and Elsa Jenkins, wearing the negligee, her face and body glowing from the bath, her blond hair cascading over her shoulders, the bottom fringes still damp, smiled and said, “Good evening, senator.”

  He stepped inside. She bolted the door behind them. The scent of her reached his nostrils. He breathed it in, smiled, sighed, and embraced her, feeling her intense softness and warmth against him. They kissed.

  “You’re right on time, senator,” she said, taking his hand and leading him to the bed.

  | Chapter Eight |

  After driving Roseann home, Potamos headed over to Tony Fiamma’s rooming house. He arrived precisely at noon. Fiamma was waiting for him. So was his landlady.

  “Hi,” Potamos said to her.

  “You the one paying the rent?”

  “Huh?” He looked at Fiamma, who’d come down the stairs.

  “He said you had the money,” the landlady said through her tiny mouth.

  Fiamma said, “I told her I was selling you something. The rent’s only sixty a week. I figured—”

  “You figured wrong,” Potamos said. “You’ve got big ones, kid.”

  “He’s three weeks behind,” said the little mouth.

  “She’s kicking me out,” Fiamma said. “Big deal, you know, a lousy t
hree weeks and—”

  “What are you selling?” Potamos asked him.

  “Information. Good information.”

  “Yeah?” Potamos dug into his pocket and pulled out a $50 bill, handed it to the landlady. “This is a downpayment,” he said. “We’ll go upstairs and talk and maybe—”

  “It’s only fifty dollars,” she said.

  “Patience,” said Potamos, pushing Fiamma up the stairs in front of him.

  Potamos slammed the door behind them and said, “You’re a piece of work, Fiamma. What are you, some cheap hustler?”

  “No, I’m… look, thanks for what you did downstairs. The old lady’s crazy. She’s making me crazy.”

  “She rents rooms. She gets paid rent. What’s crazy about that?”

  “It’s all greed, man. The whole world runs on greed.”

  Potamos laughed. “And you’re Mr. Philanthropy, huh? What do you have, information about Valerie Frolich’s murder for sale? For sale! She’s dead. You’re a friend? You’re a greedy son of a—”

  “I’m a journalist.”

  “Not in my book.”

  “We read different books. Look, Mr. Potamos, I’ve been hustling since I was ten. I dropped out of school three, four times because I couldn’t pay the tuition, or the rent, or eat. I graduate in a month and I want it all to be worth it, you know?” He curled his lip. “What the hell do you do, write for the Post for nothing? They pay you, don’t they?”

  “Yeah, because I work there.”

  “I wanna work there.”

  “Call personnel.”

  “Come on. I want a reporting job.”

  “You ever hear of paying dues?”

  “I paid ‘em, man, in spades.” He shoved the white kitchen chair at Potamos. “Sit down, huh? Let me tell you what I have and maybe you’ll see it different than you do now.” Potamos sat. Fiamma grabbed a manila file folder from the desk, sat on the edge of his unmade bed, and opened it. “You ready?” he asked.

  Potamos couldn’t help grinning. “Yeah, I’m ready. Just make sure it’s worth fifty bucks.”