Murder at Union Station

by Margaret Truman

  “Yeah. Over at the Company.”

  “My former employer,” Stripling said. “You know why I’m here. You know who I’m working this for. Your leader.”

  He’d received a call at home from Mark Roper, his last boss before he had officially retired from the CIA.

  “Wake you?” Roper asked.

  “No. It’s eight-thirty. I’ve been up for hours.”

  Roper chuckled. “Now that you’re a man of leisure, I figured you might be catching up on all the sleep I caused you to lose over the past year.”

  “You only thought I lost sleep, Mark. I took more naps on the job than you knew. What’s up?”

  “I thought you might be interested in some freelance work. Supplement the pension.”

  Stripling cradled the cordless phone between shoulder and ear, poured fresh coffee into his cup, and resumed his chair at the kitchen table in his Foggy Bottom town house. He was honest when he said he’d been up for hours, only he hadn’t bothered getting dressed. He wore a robe over his pajamas, and slippers. The morning paper sat half read on the table.

  “What’s it pay?” he asked. “Minimum wage?”

  “Slightly better. How’s your love life?”

  Stripling grimaced and looked out the window onto E Street N.W. Unlike those in colder climates who fall into a February depression and hibernate, Washingtonians tend to have the same reaction in summer. Heat and humidity fray tempers and wilt the psyche. This late July day promised to wilt even the heartiest of souls.

  Roper’s question about Stripling’s love life had various meanings, Stripling knew. Because he’d never married, there was the natural unreasonable speculation. There had been women in his life, plenty of them, but none had stuck. The truth was, he enjoyed female companionship but only in short bursts; he had limited patience with relationships that lingered beyond the initial phase. He knew what was behind Roper’s question and ignored it. Under Roper’s affable facade was a nasty disposition that he put to good use when wanting to get beneath someone’s skin.

  “Tell me more about this freelance assignment,” Stripling said.

  Three hours later, dressed in a lightweight blue suit, white shirt, and gray tie, he sat with a deputy attorney general in the Department of Justice building at Constitution Avenue and Tenth Street N.W. The middle-aged woman, whose dress and hairstyle reminded Stripling of actresses in the Hope-Crosby road movies of the forties, briefed him on what the attorney general expected. Stripling masked his annoyance at her tone. He was Tim, she was Mrs. Klaus; she never referred to her boss by name, always as the attorney general, never as Wayne Garson or Wayne or Mr. Garson or Garson.

  “Tim, the attorney general expects you to-”

  He noted on her ID tag that her first name was Gertrude, and called her that when they parted. She didn’t look pleased. The hell with her, he thought as he walked from Justice to the Hoover Building, where the next meeting was scheduled. By the time he got there, his shirt and pants felt like they were glued to him, and the building’s efficient air-conditioning turned everything clammy against his skin. He was not in a good mood.

  “So let me ask you something,” Stripling said to the two FBI agents in the room. “Why the interest in this guy Russo? What is he, a terrorist?”

  A smile crossed one of the agent’s faces. “The president might think so,” he said.

  Stripling started to ask another question but was cut off. “Look, Tim, we’re not sure what this is all about. Need to know. What we do know is that Garson wants to know where this Mr. Louis Russo is.”

  “Why the assumption he’s headed this way?” Stripling asked.

  Shrugs.

  “You said Parmele might consider him a terrorist,” Stripling said. “Why?”

  “Like we said, Tim, it’s strictly need to know.”

  Sure, Stripling thought. You just happened to mention that the president had some interest in Mr. Russo, but you don’t know why. Sure.

  A knock on the door was followed by the entrance of an aide carrying a sheet of paper, which she handed to one of the agents. He put on his glasses, read it, and handed it to Stripling.

  “ Barcelona, then to Newark on Delta,” Stripling said, reading from the sheet. “Nothing after that. Maybe he has relatives in New Jersey. New Jersey has a few Italians.”

  “We’re convinced he’s on his way here,” an agent said. “U.S. Air shuttle? Amtrak? Doesn’t need a reservation on either one. Look, Tim, we’re supposed to not be involved in this. Officially, that is. The attorney general wants it kept outside the Bureau, which is why you’re here. We don’t know much about you except that you were covert with the Company, and Garson arranged for you to get involved through somebody over there.”

  “And all I have to do is find this Russo-if he is headed for Washington -and keep tabs on him. Right?”

  “That’s pretty much it. Here.”

  Stripling was handed a manila file folder. Inside was a black-and-white photograph. A small white label at the bottom of the picture had the name Louis Russo printed on it, and the date 1991.

  “How old was he when this was taken?” Stripling asked.

  “Not sure” was the reply.

  Stripling was handed a slip of paper. Written on it was a phone number with a 212 area code, and the name Courtney Tresh.

  “Who’s he?” Stripling asked.

  “She. NYPD. She can give you some background. Say you’re from the Liberty Press.”

  “ Liberty Press?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Why don’t you call her?” Stripling asked.

  “Like we said, Garson wants us out of it.”

  Stripling again consulted the sheet of paper. “According to this, Russo should have landed at Newark hours ago. Hell, if he is coming to Washington, he’s probably here by now.”

  One of the agents pulled a cell phone from a briefcase at his feet and gave it to Stripling.

  “No, thanks, I have my own,” Stripling said.

  “Use this one,” he was told. “We’ve got the number programmed in the computer. We’ll get in touch if we come up with anything that might be of help to you. Don’t call us. We’ll call you. Thanks for coming in.”

  Stripling was to the door when one of the agents said, “The attorney general won’t be happy if you don’t find Russo.”

  “The attorney general. Garson, you mean.”

  When Stripling was gone, one of the agents asked the other, “Do you know any more than you let on about why the AG is so interested in Russo?”

  “No. But you can bet that for Garson to take a personal interest, his boss has one, too.”

  SEVEN

  Damn!”

  Rich Marienthal shifted into neutral and slapped the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “Damn! What the hell is going on?”

  “Must be an accident,” Kathryn Jalick said from the passenger seat of the Subaru Outback.

  Marienthal and Kathryn had been stalled in traffic for twenty minutes on the Lee Highway, halfway between Falls Church, Virginia, and Washington, only a few miles from D.C. They’d driven to Falls Church the previous day to attend the funeral of one of Kathryn’s aunts. The post-funeral gathering was held at the home of one of the deceased’s sons, a retired FBI agent who lived in the Falls Church area and who urged Rich and Kathryn to stay over. Marienthal balked at the suggestion, but Kathryn, pleased to be with family she seldom saw, prevailed.

  Now, after a late start back to D.C.-“I told you we should have left more time,” she’d chided cheerfully-they sat in the traffic jam, Marienthal’s frequently consulted wristwatch ticking off the minutes.

  He leaned on the horn.

  “That won’t help anything,” Kathryn said.

  He clicked on the radio and tuned to all-news WTOP in search of a traffic report.

  “He told me the train when he called,” Marienthal growled. “He’s due to arrive any minute, if he’s not there already.” Another slap on the wheel, harder this t
ime, shook it, and Kathryn feared it might break. She placed her hand on his thigh to calm him, but it was a futile gesture. He squirmed in his seat, leaned out the window to look ahead, and blew the horn again, causing the driver in front to turn and gesture, not a friendly one.

  While Marienthal fumed, Kathryn thought less cheerfully about the past twenty-four hours.

  Lately she’d been caught between what the reality of their relationship had become and what she wanted it to be. The fact was, things had slid downhill over the past months, and she wasn’t happy about it. There hadn’t been anything tangible to point to, certainly nothing like physical abuse or a suspicion that Rich might be cheating on her. Her sister in Kansas, one of the few people in whom Kathryn confided, had asked whether Kathryn thought Rich might be seeing someone else.

  “I’m sure he isn’t,” she’d replied, with a rueful laugh. “He doesn’t have time to see me, let alone somebody else. He’s so totally consumed with this book he’s working on that-”

  “What is the book about?” her sister asked. “You keep saying he’s working on a book, but you never say what it’s about.”

  Kathryn hated to lie to her sister. Their adult relationship had been grounded in honesty. But this was different. Rich had sworn her to secrecy, and she was determined to honor her promise to him.

  “I’m really not sure,” she fibbed. “You never can be sure what a book’s about till you’ve read it. He’s very secretive about it. You know how writers are.” A nervous laugh.

  “No, I don’t, Kathy. I mean, I don’t know any writers.”

  “Well, Rich is protective of… he’s… well, he’s secretive, that’s all. I don’t know how else to put it.”

  Her sister hesitated before asking, “Do you think you guys might break up?”

  “I hope not. I know, I know, I’ve been complaining a lot lately, and I don’t mean to say bad things about Rich. He’s really a sweetheart, a terrific guy.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. When do we get to meet him?”

  “Soon, I hope. I-”

  “You were going to bring him out here over Christmas.”

  “He was-he was busy with the book.”

  “The book.”

  Kathryn laughed. “Yes, the book. Got to run. Love you. Later.”

  She’d cut that conversation short because she realized she’d been sounding like a broken record, complaining to her sister about how Marienthal had become distant from her, perpetually distracted, it seemed. Their lovemaking, which had been frequent and satisfying early in the relationship, had become only an occasional event over the past year. Was it because he’d lost interest in her as a sexual partner? Had be become bored with her? Would he seek a more appealing partner? There were so many attractive, willing women in Washington, although she didn’t consider herself unattractive. She’d put a few pounds on since they had met, a little extra flesh on her stomach. But he’d told her he liked that, and enjoyed kissing her belly when they made love. She’d tried new hairdos; she now wore her hair short. It was coal black and rich in color and texture. Her pale skin was flawless, and she applied what little makeup she wore with some skill. Did he no longer love her dimples and what he called her “chipmunk cheeks”? She didn’t want to succumb to this self-doubt about her physical appeal. It was so pre-fem lib, so feeding into the Playboy image of the ideal woman. But she was human. She loved him and wanted to be perfect for him.

  Her need to justify the changes in him trumped more rational explanations.

  Maybe it was only natural that after three years, the fire that had characterized that earlier time would simmer down to embers, passion replaced by a more comfortable, less impetuous relationship. Maybe she’d been neglectful of late, taking him for granted and no longer bothering to be sexually provocative.

  Like last night. They were in the guest room. She read in bed; he sat at a small desk making notes in a journal he’d started keeping. Kathryn came to him, wrapped her arms around him, and coyly suggested that making love in an ex-FBI agent’s house would be fun, something to remember. During the first year together, they’d enjoyed sex in what might be considered unconventional venues-in a bathroom at a friend’s house in the midst of a party; on a train; in a public park one night.

  “Right under J. Edgar Hoover’s nosy nose.” She giggled in his ear.

  He turned and kissed her on the cheek. “A rain check, huh? I want to get these notes down before I forget them, and get some sleep. Tomorrow’s the big day.”

  Kathryn banked that rain check along with others she’d accumulated recently, read a few more pages, and fell asleep.

  They overslept. And now they were planted in traffic on the Lee Highway, halfway between Falls Church and Washington, D.C.

  Traffic began to inch forward, but a snail could easily outrun them. At least there was movement. WTOP’s traffic reporter said that there had been a multi-vehicle accident with fatalities on the Lee Highway. She felt a pang of guilt.

  Marienthal’s cell phone rang.

  “Yeah? Hey, Geoff. What? We’re stuck in goddamn traffic on the Lee Highway. Huh? Yeah, I know, but don’t worry about it. I’ll be there in time to meet him.” He glanced at Kathryn, who raised her eyebrows and looked away.

  “Look, Geoff, we’re starting to move. Call you later. What? I told you I’d be there. Nothing to worry about. Bye.”

  A few minutes later they passed the accident, a chaotic scene with ambulances and fire trucks. The burned-out remnants of a car had been pushed to the side of the road.

  “How awful,” Kathryn said, averting her eyes from the grisly scene. “Nobody survived that one.”

  Marienthal wasn’t listening. He passed a few slow-moving cars whose drivers were still rubbernecking and muttered something under his breath. The accident was indeed a grim scene. But he felt no pang of guilt; he had other scenes on his mind at the moment.

  EIGHT

  The Amtrak train from New York pulled into its berth at gate A-8 on time. Russo was nauseous and took one of the many pills he carried in a blue plastic case. He was also still weary and wanted to put his head down and sleep. But he couldn’t do that. He sat up straight and tried to blink away his fatigue. He debated stopping in the restroom before leaving the train but decided instead to look for a men’s room in Union Station.

  “Are you all right?” the conductor asked as he slowly walked to the door, his cane leading the way, small suitcase in his other hand.

  “Yes, I am fine. Thank you.”

  “Want help with that?” she asked, indicating the suitcase.

  He shook his head. “No, no, thank you.”

  He stepped from the train and was bumped by another exiting passenger, a young businessman carrying a briefcase and in a hurry. There was no apology.

  “Idiota,” Russo growled.

  There was a time when such an incident might have prompted the old man to strike back. He’d killed over such discourtesy and disrespect. He watched the man disappear in a crowd of people who’d left the train and were rushing to whatever had brought them to Washington: meetings with government officials, business lunches, bullshit, reuniting with family, who knew?

  He walked slowly toward where the arrival gates emptied into the station itself, but was stopped by a sharp pain in his side. He drew deep breaths and waited for it to subside before continuing. Immediately to his right was a public men’s room. His need to urinate was suddenly intense, as it had been for the past year since the diagnosis. Prostate cancer. There were instances when he couldn’t make it in time to a bathroom and suffered the embarrassment of soiling himself.

  He paused before entering the facility. Marienthal had said he’d be at the gate to meet him, but he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. He took in the people milling about, more than a few of them African-Americans. He didn’t like the blacks, didn’t trust them. Not that he’d had any bad times with them, but he was brought up to trust only his own, Italiano, people of honor. And Sasha.

&
nbsp; As he took a few steps in the direction of the entrance to the men’s room, he noticed the tall, slender, well-dressed black man leaning against a wall and reading a newspaper. The man lowered the paper and locked eyes for a second with Russo, then raised the paper to cover his face. Did he sense something in the man’s eyes? The pain in Russo’s side and the need to reach a toilet were momentarily forgotten.

  But that was immediately replaced by a sharper pain. He walked as quickly as possible into the men’s room.

  When he emerged minutes later, the man with the newspaper was gone. Russo looked for Marienthal. Where was he? People passed him in a rush, the staccato rhythm of women’s heels on the white marble floor sounding louder to him than it actually was. The whirl of human movement around him became dizzying, and he felt light-headed. He turned and stared into a shop window filled with travel accessories, closing his eyes against his reflection in the glass.

  A mild panic set in. He hated the accompanying feeling of hopelessness that had been cropping up frequently of late. Crowds confused him, and he’d avoided Tel Aviv’s bustling shops and restaurants for that reason, to Sasha’s annoyance.

  Where was Marienthal?

  He couldn’t continue to stand there, he knew. He had to move to avoid passing out.

  The sense of confusion and disorientation increased as he walked aimlessly into the train concourse, behind the Amtrak ticket counter and past the Exclusive Shoe Shine’s raised platform, where Joe Jenks awaited his next customer.

  “Shine, sir?” Jenks said to Russo.

  “What?”

  “Shoeshine? Best in D.C.,” Jenks said, flashing a broad grin at the old man with the red toupee and cane. “Comb your hair in your shoes when I’m done.”

  Jenks’s face went in and out of focus. He looked puzzled.

  “Chiacchierone incoerente,” Russo snapped at the bootblack, who put up his hands as though to defend himself against the old man’s obvious anger.